Untouchable
by michellemybelle25
Summary: A love story for a phantom.
1. Chapter 1

I do not own the characters; they are from various versions of Phantom of the Opera.

OK, so after a great debate, I decided to start posting my phantom novel. I wrote this years ago after going through a health situation, and I was just after an escape. It truly is an idealized romance. It includes the holiday season, which is why I wanted to start getting it posted now. And in this story, I wrote Christine with a bit more personality. I always believed that if she could have that, it would alter every detail. I will keep posting chapters as I edit; I am also currently working on editing the novel I'm getting published, so it's a busy time. I truly hope that you enjoy this story; it's very passionate and hopefully gives inspiration in its love story. This novel is dedicated to my dear friend Mary. If not for her encouragement, it probably would have been tucked away in my closet for the rest of my life!

SUMMARY: A love story for a phantom.

"Untouchable"

Christine Daaé's girlish giggles of delight echoed down the nearly empty corridors of the opera house and up to the highest beams of the rafters above her head. She tried to quiet herself with a hand pressed demurely to her lips, knowing that she was acting more like a child than a lady, but the bubbling bursts of laughter escaped between her fingers despite her best efforts as Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny, erupted into another story of the mischievous escapades of their youth. His audience consisted of Christine and her best friend, Meg Giry, and the little ballerina was also trying to no avail to contain her own fluttering giggles as the Vicomte imitated the high-pitched scoldings of his nursemaid complete with the woman's thick Irish brogue.

"Oh, Raoul, you are too horrible!" Christine shouted, swatting at his arm. "The poor woman is dead and gone, and here you are making fun of her!"

"She would be pleased to know that her memory lives on," the Vicomte justified with his charming grin. "And if I do remember correctly, she only ever yelled at me when you were around. I guess that shows what a terrible influence you were on my fragile, innocent self."

"Hey!" She couldn't contain the brightness of her smile at his teasing, inspired by the memories he was evoking, memories of the most pleasant time of her life. "I hardly believe that! You were a very naughty little boy, Raoul! Most of our adventures were all _your_ idea. Do you remember when we dug up your yard in search of buried treasure with that silly map you made out of tree bark?"

"We were pirates!" Raoul tried to argue.

"Pirates!" Meg exclaimed in a new fit of giggles.

Christine could only join her, fighting to speak coherent words amidst her laughter. "Your poor nurse nearly strangled us. She had to explain it to your father, and she told him it was gophers because she didn't want to lose her position as nursemaid to a Vicomte."

"Poor nurse indeed! We certainly kept her job interesting for her!" Raoul's deep chuckles were a harmony of sound, the echoes bouncing off of the walls and filtering upward.

Up, up, up. In the darkness above their heads listening to every word was a shadow, a shadow that had not even one smile for their happy memories, a shadow that knew only envy and seething rage as their every utterance of delight pierced his already agonized heart. Desperate to break up their exchange, he purposely made a loud ruckus of indecipherable noises and watched with satisfaction as the trio below abruptly ended their laughter and suddenly glanced around themselves with widened stares.

"What was that?" Meg whispered without voice, her bottom lip trembling uncontrollably as her terror-filled, green eyes peeked anxiously about.

Straightening defiantly, the Vicomte gave a forced, confident chuckle and declared, "Women are always so sensitive in their dispositions. I'm sure it was nothing, mademoiselle, just someone else who hasn't yet departed for the night."

But Meg was unconvinced, her eyes still nervously wandering every dark corner while beside her, Christine cast a furtive glance above to the rafters, knowing exactly who was there watching them. …Watching, always watching; the thought incited a hardly-discernible shudder down her back, but she said nothing to her companions and lowered her eyes despondently to wringing hands.

"I should go," Meg hurriedly insisted, shivering as she spoke. "Mama will be worried if I am late." Forcing herself to stay a moment longer despite her rising urgency to flee, she hastily asked Christine, "Are you sure that you don't want to stay with Mama and I over the break? You are more than welcome."

"Yes, thank you," Christine answered, a strange sadness glinting in the depths of her blue eyes. "I have a great deal of practicing to do, and I am quite looking forward to spending some quiet time alone."

"If you should change your mind, you know the invitation is always open." Meg gave her a quick hug and granted a small, flustered wave to the Vicomte before rushing toward the door, still worriedly scanning the shadows all around at every step.

"Is she always so easily frightened?" Raoul asked, staring after the ballerina only a moment longer before he eagerly fixed his gaze on Christine.

"That's just Meg," she hastily explained. "She's scared of her own shadow."

"Oh, but you're not?"

"No." Almost immediately, her smile faded from sight, the corners of her lips weighed down with the heaviness of her thoughts. Scared of shadows…. She already knew what lurked in the dark, what stalked her every movement, and her fear over it had disappeared long ago.

The Vicomte's brow furrowed with his concern as he caught her shoulders between his hands and turned her to face him. "Suddenly so serious. Won't you tell me what is going on in that pretty head of yours?"

Shrinking free of his hold, Christine forced a smile again, and even if it was feigned, he was far too distracted admiring the beauty of its formation to give notice. "Nothing…. I was only thinking that I should be leaving as well."

"Well, let me walk you home."

"No!" she immediately exclaimed before quickly attempting a calm exterior. "I mean…_you_ should go; I…I actually think I will stay and practice a little longer instead."

"Then let me return to get you when you are finished."

"That won't be necessary, Raoul."

"But you shouldn't walk home alone at night."

Shaking her head adamantly, she was gesturing him toward the door with impatient hands. "Don't be silly. I walk home alone every night. I will be just fine."

Unconvinced and still reluctant to leave, Raoul caught one of her trembling hands in his, gently stroking the back with his thumb. "Then if you won't let me escort you home tonight, may I call on you tomorrow? You will have three whole days to enjoy your quiet solitude as you like. May I have one afternoon of that? Please, Little Lotte?"

When he looked at her with those familiar blue eyes in that expression so like his boyish self and called her the pet name of their shared youth, she could not suppress the curves of a genuine grin or form the imperative words of a refusal. "All right, Raoul," she found herself conceding against better judgment. "…You may call on me."

"Thank you!" Impulsively, the Vicomte brought the hand he held to his lips and pressed a kiss to its smooth knuckles. "I will be at your apartment after breakfast and not one minute later." Gazing deeply into her eyes, Raoul dared to raise his free hand and tenderly tuck her hair behind her ear, whispering, "Goodnight, my Christine. Be careful."

"I will," she replied and watched with a vague sense of disappointment as Raoul released her and left with one more beaming glance over his shoulder.

Beaming? He was more than beaming; he was so elated and excited that she had finally said yes, and that only made the guilt weigh even more upon her shoulders. How foolishly selfish she had been to agree and lead him on! The next day when he arrived at her apartment, he would find no one at home and feel betrayed and hurt because she had lacked the strength to refuse him to his face. And it hardly seemed fair because she didn't _want_ to refuse! It was killing her to keep pushing him away so cruelly, …but she had another engagement to attend to, a promise she had to keep first…whether she wanted to or not.

With a desolate sigh, Christine spun on her heel and stalked down the hallway, knowing that she was being followed. She was purposely ignoring her stalker, pretending that she was ignorant to his presence if only to have a few more moments to herself. Bursting through her dressing room door, she reluctantly locked herself in, lingering one final second to gaze solemnly at the wooden doorframe before she slowly turned to face her impending fate.

It wasn't fair, she insisted to herself again, and that was the only way she could think of it even as she dubbed her assessment a childish rant and chastised her pettiness. The company was being granted a very short vacation of only three days in between productions to rest, and while everyone else would be doing exactly that, she would be confined to the dreary, damp catacombs of the opera house with a mentally unstable man who was more or less a stranger to her.

Erik…. She usually chose not to think of him rather than to contemplate their situation; it was easier that way. Simply put, he was her teacher and had been acting in that role for nearly five months now. Of course, for the first four, he had deceived her and pretended to be an angel, but now she knew the truth, that he was a man cut off from society both because of his horribly disfigured face and a rather questionable past that Christine still knew very little about and had no inclination to learn. It was more than enough to still be adjusting to his existence as an earthly human being and not a divine creature; she wasn't yet prepared to face his sins as well, not when the exaggerated gossip around the opera equated him with the devil himself. No, better not to know the truth….

"Christine…." His eerily lyrical tone resounded around her in the small room, and hesitantly, she turned to regard her full-length mirror. Despite her annoyance, a shiver ran through her at the sheer beauty of that voice. It was that voice alone that had once convinced her that he was indeed an angel, for what sort of earthly being could possess such an instrument? Golden, beautiful, ethereal…. Ironic what the truth had really been!

Mentally cursing her own weakness, she quickly grabbed her thick, woolen cloak and drew it over her shoulders, remembering the chill of the deep cellars she would be walking. The mirror's glass was growing hazy, her reflection fading from her sight, and with the soft whine of the hinge and pulley system that opened the secret doorway, she watched unimpressed as the glass seemed to vanish with his little trick. All that was left for her was an awaiting darkness and a shadow of a figure that did not dare to step into the warm glow of her dressing room as if shunning the natural solace of light itself.

Her companion said not a word, only held out his gloved hand to appear as if the very shadows were reaching out to suck her into their black depths, and with a final glance at her world, she slowly took the offered hand and was led through the doorway of the very gates to hell.

As soon as the mirror glass closed again, hiding the inviting light of her own world, her eyes adjusted themselves to the new, weaker glow of the solitary lantern her companion held, and she nervously faced him, her bare hand loosely clasped in his gloved one, a mere impulse away from jerking free.

Though it had been a month since she had learned his true identity, being with him still unnerved her. It was relatively new and yet unfamiliar to glimpse that stark, white mask gazing so intently at her and to regard his thin frame, the build of a corporeal man and not an angel. No, …he had no pure, white wings to wrap her in and no untainted, shining soul to inspire her. He was a mortal man with a mortal man's sins and flaws that could not be forgotten. Staring at that mask for a long moment, she felt a strange tingle race her spine with the flashed image of what it hid from her view, of the ravaged face of Death that she had born witness to only once, twisted as it had been in the fit of rage she had ignorantly caused. And it was as though he could read the memory in her mind because she could swear that she saw it reflected in the depths of his mismatched eyes with a piercing sadness that she had to look away from; it was just too powerful to behold and not respond to with pity, and she did not want to _feel_ pity for such a creature.

Erik still did not speak to her, only began to lead her by the hand he clasped down that long pathway to his home, and she was silently cursing herself for her inability to veil her emotions. It seemed all she could manage to do was cause him pain with her foolish innocence. Nearly every time they met face to face, as they often did now for her lessons, she would do something to hurt him, either stare rudely at his mask or shrink away from an accidental touch. Though he would have never admitted it aloud and she never dared ask, she knew that it was due to her unwitting reactions that he had taken up wearing gloves while in her presence, to spare her any possible brushing of his skin to hers. Even though she made no complaint against them, she felt the guilt gnawing at her insides. It was all her own fault after all; had she simply respected his wishes and refrained from touching his mask as he had asked, then perhaps things would have been different. But as usual, her curiosity had overwhelmed her, and she had unintentionally failed him and brought fantasies of angels with golden wings crashing down upon her own head.

The silence stretched between them as they walked that lonely path to his home, and when at last she glimpsed the glow from within that hidden sanctuary filtering out into the dark catacombs, Christine felt a wave of nervous fear settle in her stomach. This was it; she was going to spend the next three days in the lion's den. The only night she had stayed in this house was that first one when she had still believed in angels. Since then, she had been fortunate that her lessons had ended early enough for her to return to her own apartment without consideration. It wasn't the house itself that scared her, even buried so deep beneath earth's surface; she had her own room here, a beautifully decorated room that was finer than any she had ever known. No, it was a profoundly embedded fear of Erik himself; it was the very idea of living with this man far away from the rest of humanity and anyone to help her if he dared to lose control and fly into one of his rages. Accepting his proposal to stay with him for the next three days made her feel foolishly naïve, perhaps putting a little more trust in him than her rational mind said that she should. But it was too late now to go back and refuse.

Erik opened the door, and only then did he release her hand from the hold he had had on it during their entire journey. For one brief instant, she actually missed the pressure of his fingers curled around hers, the strange protective solidity of that simple clasping, but she quickly dismissed the feeling as ridiculous and turned to watch him lock the door behind them, confining her into the house with him. …Locked in with him.

Erik noticed how her wild eyes were fixed on the key in his hand, and trying to keep the sadness from his voice, he said, "You may leave whenever you like, Christine. You are not a prisoner here." And with that, he put the key in the drawer of a nearby table, making certain that she blatantly saw his every movement.

"I…I know," Christine replied in an unconvincing tone, finding little in the way of relief to simply know where the key was kept. …Why did it still seem as if she was just as trapped?

Fighting to ignore her unease, Erik idly motioned to the adjoining hallway. "You must be hungry. Go on to your room, and I'll call you when supper is ready."

A solitary nod was her reply, her expression never altering from its apprehensive sculpture. As always, she felt awkward and unnatural in his presence and was oddly content with an acceptable form of escape as with one final cautious look at him, she turned and hurried down the hall.

Erik watched her go, staring after her until she disappeared within the sanctuary of her room. A malaise of emotions was twisting nonstop within him, for even though it hurt him to see her mistrust vibrantly on display, a mistrust that his own deception had been the root cause of, he was also inexplicably overwhelmed with a foreign sense of happiness that she was actually in his home. Three days as his…. He had not forced it on her; he had asked, and to his shock, she had said yes, returning to him a hope he had assumed to be perished. …Maybe there was still a chance….

Maybe indeed! He cursed his steadfast, unfounded belief in a happy ending for everyone; a happy ending would never be his, and the sooner he accepted that, the less pain he would force himself to endure. Had he not born witness this very day to her keeping company with that arrogant, pompous Vicomte and laughing and smiling in a way that she had never done with him? Had he not seen the damn Vicomte touch her, holding her hand, brushing her arm, without her shrinking away in revulsion? That damn de Chagny had even dared to call her "my Christine"! Arrogant bastard! The memory of it alone made Erik's blood run hot with fury. He had wanted to drop out of the rafters and strangle the Vicomte without a thought or regret, and as far as Erik was concerned, it was only Christine's undeniable presence that had saved the young boy's life. Killing him would have been so easy, but once again Erik had to remind himself that if he ever wanted to rebuild what had been lost, he had to restrain his murderous urges and act the role of a gentleman. …But oh, what torture it was!

Clenching his fists tightly with the lingering remnants of his repressed rage, Erik stalked to his kitchen and began to prepare dinner for his guest. …A guest. He was unaccustomed to entertaining company, but it was something that he knew he could grow accustomed to quickly in Christine's case. Already, he could feel her presence under his roof, the very shift in the dynamics of the house itself. It no longer felt empty and cold; it now contained life and a tentative air of excited anticipation for what was to come. Three days…. He had three days with her…. He was terrified that this was all a cruel dream he would awaken from alone and cursed to stay that way, and dear God, if it was, let him never awaken to reality again! Three days….

In her room on the opposite side of the house, Christine had thrown herself on the bed in a very unladylike pose. She rested on her stomach, her head pillowed atop her arms, and she once again huffed indignantly to herself at the lack of fairness in her present situation. Poor Raoul! He would arrive at her apartment the next morning so happy and anticipating only to learn that she had abandoned him. He would likely give up on her then and never beg for another chance. Why would he want to endure a second possible crushing of his ego at her hand? It was so _unfair_! Raoul was a wonderful man and a dear friend. She should be allowed to spend time with him if she so chose. It hardly made sense that Erik was being allowed to deem who she could and could not see; she couldn't help but conclude that he was being oppressively cruel and inconsiderate.

Christine huffed again as if it could take away a bit of her irritation and flipped over onto her back with a dramatic throwing of slender limbs. Staring up at the pink, sheer ceiling of her canopy bed, she pretended to focus on the material even as her mind drifted to Raoul again. Erik should realize just how fortunate she was to have a Vicomte of all people interested in her, especially considering her choice of a career. Most of society looked down on entertainers as a general rule, so for Raoul to even speak to her was a breach of etiquette despite their shared past. Why couldn't Erik seem to understand that Raoul was gallantly sacrificing his own reputation to be anywhere near her? A Vicomte and an opera singer, a conversation alone was practically a scandal….

A little while later as she was still pondering her situation with a perturbed pout upon her pink lips, a soft rapping came to her closed door, and Erik's voice met her ear. "Christine, supper is ready…if you would care to join me."

"I'll be right there," she called back in a flustered stammer, quickly stumbling from her bed in a mess of twisted skirts. Rushing to her vanity mirror, she straightened her gown and smoothed back her disheveled hair with hasty hands. She had no idea why she was even going to the trouble; after all, it was only Erik. But without a thought of consequences, she pinched her cheeks and chewed gently on her lips to give them a little color, knowing in the faint bit of a rational mind still existing that she was acting more like a girl running off to meet her lover. But she didn't take the time to scold herself as she knew she should, instead scurrying out the door and toward the dining room.

As soon as she reached the threshold, she abruptly halted mid-step. Of course, this was not the first time she had seen the room, but her usual glances were just in passing. Never had she dined with Erik in this manner, and it was definitely a little unsettling to glimpse the scene he had arranged solely for her. The table was set with fine china and silver, more expensive than any she'd ever seen or owned, as a tall candelabra in the center made every lustrous surface glisten and cast a surprisingly warm glow that invited her to enter. Even more enticing, though, were the luscious aromas that had swarmed her as soon as she had left her room, fragrant scents from the decadent dishes he had taken the time to prepare. Her stomach immediately rumbled in response with the sudden memory that she hadn't eaten since breakfast, too boggled by nerves at the mere idea that she was going to be staying with Erik to remember such mundane necessities as eating. In view of such a meal, her hunger was alive and intensely gnawing at her insides with a vengeance, but she forcefully pushed it back a moment longer to meet the eye of her dinner companion as he sat stoically at the head of the table watching her in silence and studying her every reaction to his work with an intensity that made her uncomfortably shift on her feet.

"Erik," she nervously greeted with the tentative curve of a smile, "you shouldn't have gone to such trouble for me."

Unaccustomed to bearing any form of gratitude from anyone, he managed to give an abashed shrug, however ungraceful and uncommonly brusque the gesture was, and abruptly rose to his feet as she came to her place at the table. His impulse was to act the role of a gentleman and hold her chair out for her, but he quickly reminded himself what he truly was and somberly took his seat again as she hesitantly sat beside him.

As they began to eat their meal, an uneasy silence grew and hung in the air. Erik's social skills in this foreign situation were meager at best as he sought to find some appropriate form of conversation, but a more pressing issue was the blunt reality that he was having a very difficult time managing to take even a bite as he would not dare remove his mask with Christine far too close. …And yet, how could he truly complain when the alternative meant waiting until she finished and then eating alone? No, it was too much of a joy to share her company, a joy that he had never before known.

Christine picked at her meal with her fork and took small, dainty bites like a lady should while her hunger was begging her to attack the plate ravenously. She knew that she should attempt to start a conversation herself, but she was too excited about eating to consider anything else. It was only when her plate was nearly empty, a very unladylike gesture on her part, or so her attempted maturity scolded, that she glanced to her companion.

Immediately, she stopped and openly stared, even as she chastised herself and insisted she was being rude. Erik was trying unsuccessfully to take a bite from his fork, tilting it to obscure angles all the while determined not to drop its contents. Abandoning the tactic entirely with a huff of annoyance, he returned the food to his plate and proceeded to cut it down to the smallest of morsels, and then awkward still, he was finally able to take a clumsy bite, swallowing hard without even chewing. This was the first time it had ever occurred to Christine that the things that she did normally without a thought, the very day-to-day actions of living, could be challenging for Erik. She had never considered how he could eat with that mask over his face, and she was now concluding on her own that he likely did not wear it. …Why had he not told her? Why was he doing this to himself? Was it that truly important to him to put on the charade of a normal man for her sake?

Lowering her eyes abruptly so that he would not catch her staring with an unavoidable fear of the wrath that could ensue, she poked at her own piece of chicken, but her mind was no longer on the food. Erik had arranged this lovely supper for her, Erik who obviously never ate with anyone. She was realizing that he had a good deal of trust in her that she suddenly felt so undeserving of as a wave of guilt shook her with its intensity and settled heavily in her heart.

"Erik." She spoke his name carefully before venturing to look again, giving him a moment to realize her intention as, true to prediction, he hurriedly set down his fork beside his plate with a clank. When she finally met his eye, giving no hint that she had seen what he clearly had not wanted her to, she tentatively began, "This is all so delicious. You truly are a wonderful cook."

"One must be when one has to cook for himself his whole life."

The coldness to his tone stung Christine and made her shrink back in her seat, cursing her ill-chosen words. It was always as if she walked atop a breakable sheet of glass around him, one wrong step away from shattering it to bits. Every comment had to be vigilantly scrutinized and every possible ramification that it could bring. It was as exhausting as it was an aggravation.

Though he had not taken her seeming compliment very well, he was sufficiently pleased with his endeavors when he spied her nearly empty plate; it was an impossibility for him to believe words alone. Attempting to act unaffected by the unsettling newness of such a situation, he was rising to take their plates to the kitchen when she abruptly leapt to her feet with an adamant shake of her head.

"No, no, please let me clean up," she insisted, shooing him toward the living room. "It's the very least I can do."

He was about to protest, but she was determined and grabbing the plates already out of his grasp, giving him little choice but to reluctantly concede. With a sigh to himself, he walked into the living room and sat down in his chair before the lit fireplace, leaning back against the soft cushions. The clatter of her activity in the kitchen filtered out to his ears, and closing his eyes, he savoured the sound, relishing the noise of life in his lonely house. He could almost pretend that she was his forever and that such clamoring and bustling about were staples in his life that he witnessed every day, a simple delight others would never consider a blessing as he did; no, he could only ever be in awe of such living sounds.

In the back of a very satisfied mind, he felt the dull gnaw of hunger. Oh well…. He would eat a real, full meal after she was abed. Hunger was a small price to pay to be able to eat at his table with her and bask in her nearness.

Erik realized that he must have dozed off because the next thing he remembered was stirring a little while later as she entered the living room.

"I'm sorry. Did I wake you?" she asked, tentatively taking a seat on the couch beside his chair.

"No," he replied, his hand unconsciously moving to his mask to make certain it was in place. He couldn't help but be anxious about it with her so close and the vivid recollection of her reaction still so fresh in his mind. Fresh? He doubted it would ever fade to anything he could deem numb and devoid of the sharp sting any consideration brought. …No, it would always hurt.

Christine stared down at her hands, nervously smoothing nonexistent wrinkles in her skirts as she gathered her courage. She already knew that what she was preparing to ask would not go over well, but she felt compelled to do so anyway as if she needed to see his response. …A test? Perhaps in a way it was; or perhaps she was just feeling a bit masochistic tonight. "Erik?"

"Yes, Christine?"

"I was just wondering…. I mean you yourself insisted that I am not a prisoner here with you, and…well, I…."

"What is it that you are trying to say?" He was eyeing her skeptically as he sat upright and tall in his seat, careful to keep himself in check for the moment. But his patience was little more than a single, fragile string that was fraying more and more with each word that passed her lips.

Shrugging her shoulders nonchalantly, as if it was the most mundane request in the world, she answered, "I was only wondering if perhaps I might…leave temporarily and go on an outing after breakfast tomorrow."

The fierce swell of tension immediately overwhelmed Erik's control as his fists grasped at armrests on either side in a brutally unyielding grip, fingers taut and curled into unyielding leather. With a clenched jaw that strained his voice through its rigid hold, he questioned curtly, "With the Vicomte?"

Christine chewed apprehensively on her bottom lip, shifting in her seat. Part of her cautioned to proceed warily while the other part, the sensible part, screamed at her to stay silent entirely. She felt herself walking into a trap, already certain Erik had overheard their conversation and knew the answer to his own question. Perhaps he expected her to lie, but she was resolved not to give him a valid reason for his incurring anger and keeping defiant, she replied, "Raoul…he asked if he might call on me tomorrow."

"And what did you tell him?"

Her heart hesitated in its beat, her eyes growing wider with trepidation. "I…I…I wanted to ask if I had your permission. …You did say that I was allowed to leave whenever I liked."

"Yes, I did say that, didn't I?"

His tone had grown sharp and biting, and Christine cringed, cursing her own foolishness. She knew what was to come now…. He stayed deceptively quiet for a long moment, which only served to make her all the more anxious, sitting perched on the edge of his throne chair, bridging and unbridging his gloved fingers like a calculating mastermind formulating a plan of unsuspecting attack. Dear Lord, she was suddenly praying that he would just let it go with a quick refusal and send her to bed. At least locked in the sanctity of her room, she'd feel a little safer. …A lock and a door between her and impending doom; it could hardly seem like much, but it was better than facing what she was about to.

"What puzzles me," he began, and she felt the foreboding sense of dread tingle the length of her spine, "is how you can so sweetly make it seem like you are requesting my permission when you have already said yes to the Vicomte."

"No," she interrupted, her voice wavering and betraying her fear despite the calmness she tried to show in every motion, "I had no intention of going unless you said that I could."

"So you would have forsaken the Vicomte?" Erik demanded. "Highly unlikely! Abandoning dear Raoul, your childhood chum and current confidante? You would _never_ do such a thing. To lie to the poor man and leave him waiting so devotedly for your company? It is simply not within your character to behave in such a way, is it?"

His harsh comments stung her to her very core. It was not Raoul that he spoke of, and they both knew it. "Erik, I'm sorry. I-"

"Sorry!" Erik leapt to his feet and stalked toward her, forcing her with his eyes alone not to look away.

Christine pressed her back into the couch cushions, shrinking as far as she was able into their softness. A violent trembling had overtaken her body, the residual effect left behind from the last time she had fully inflicted his wrath upon herself as fragmented memories flashed in her mind's eye. And she pleaded vehemently just as she had pleaded then, as if for her right to continue living and breathing, "Please believe me. I wasn't going to go! I only said yes to Raoul so that he would leave me alone. I promised you that I wouldn't allow him to court me, and I haven't. You have to believe me."

He took half a step back, allowing her to droop her posture against soft cushions, but his eyes were still burning into hers, blazing with an internal inferno that threatened to consume them both with the slightest provocation. "And yet you play your games with him and wind his affections between your little fingers at the same time as you crush mine to pieces."

"I don't-"

"Don't lie to me!" he suddenly roared, his voice bouncing from wall to wall, and she jumped with wide eyes that never blinked. "I saw you! I saw you laugh and twirl your hair and flirt like a shameless hussy! You touched him and let him touch you as if it was just so natural. And you captured his heart and his desire. Anyone with eyes could see that! He is infatuated with you! And you love it! You love knowing the power you have and toying with him! And at the same time that you tell me you reject him, you know that he will never accept your denials; they only encourage him to push longer and harder. …He'll never stop chasing you, and you don't want him to." As he spoke, he went from entirely enraged to hopelessly desolate in mere seconds, and for the first time, she could see the briefest glimpse of his heart in his eyes.

"He…he's my friend, Erik," she softly said, appealing to him now that his temper was retreating into his lackluster control. "I knew him as a child; we were playtime companions, and that is how I still consider him, as a dear, childhood friend, nothing more. He will not interfere with my career or my lessons. …I wish you could see that he is a good man."

She had chosen the wrong words; she knew it in the moment she saw his rage triggered with another abrupt shift in his demeanor. How quickly was the floor dropping out from beneath her once again?...

"Ah yes, I am to see him as a good man when all of society sees me as a monster," he bitterly spat, towering over her with fists threateningly brought forth, and she immediately crouched back in her place. A cold, grating laugh suddenly was forced past his lips, his attention refocusing distractedly to his gloved hands before him as he snapped, "How unfair it is that your Vicomte could be gifted with such a perfect face and be allowed to touch you almost frivolously at every word with his bare hands while I am so cursed and ugly and have to keep my skin from ever even grazing yours."

Christine didn't know how to respond, her eyes locked on those hands as well as he clenched and unclenched them in the gap of space between them.

"Christine," he continued tightly, "do you see me as a monster?" When she didn't reply instantaneously, he growled, "Answer me, damn you!"

Tears were pooling the corners of her eyes at his coldness as she cowered as far as she could into protective cushions. "Please stop yelling at me," she begged in a whisper for fear sound would make every crystalline drop fall free. A vivid image of him flashed in her mind, maskless and raging at her, his bony hands digging into her skull as he had forced her to look at his disfigurement when she had tried so desperately to recoil.

The instant that he saw her tears, he felt the remorse overwhelm him and tighten his insides, and as his own tears rose and choked the back of his throat, he dangled his hands before her limp and without malice as though they were stained in blood merely from the threat that a fist implied. "Why, Christine?" he cried, fighting urgently to stifle the full extent of a sob from escaping. "Why do you make me do these things? Why do you make me hurt you this way?"

"I…I'm sorry," she whispered earnestly. Her tears were making wet paths down her cheeks, but she hardly noticed as she stared at her angel teacher. He was completely distraught, acting as if he had indeed fallen to the blind madness of his rage and had attacked her instead.

With a soft whimper, Erik fell to his knees before where she sat and lowered his masked face from her view. "Forgive me, Christine," he suddenly begged, "but I cannot let you run off to meet your Vicomte. If I must make you a prisoner here, then so be it. I will do it without hesitation if it will keep you from him."

She was glad that he had looked away so that he did not see the disappointment line her face. A prisoner…. And what were her options then? To be either a willing prisoner or an uncooperative one, but she was indeed a prisoner all the same. She felt torn wide open inside with the bitter realization that her intuition had been correct all along. Try as he'd like to make it seem like this was some sort of home for her, like she truly had any sort of choice laid before her, she was no more than a nightingale in a gilded cage.

"You needn't worry, Erik," she quietly bid, feeling the door slam shut on her freedom, not just at the present moment but for her future as well. "I will stay with you as I promised I would." She did not mention Raoul. No, she could not consider him while in Erik's company, terrified that he would pluck the thoughts from her mind; she would think about Raoul when she was alone, …when she could mourn the loss.

Accepting her vow, Erik abruptly stiffened and rose, averting his damp eyes from her shape as he coldly commanded, "Go to your room, Christine. It is late, and you must be tired."

"Yes," was all she said as she quickly rose on trembling knees, and with only one final glance at him, she hastened away, grasping at the distance even if it was only a temporary reprieve.

Erik remained rooted to his spot until he heard the soft closing of her bedroom door, cringing with regret at that final noise. He wasn't sure if he was truly angry with her or if it was only with himself. It was unfair to treat her as he did; he knew that. She did not deserve to be chained to the darkness as he was, but it was the only way he knew to keep her. The very idea of her off with the eager Vicomte at her side sliced a deep, gaping hole into his heart. No! Christine was his! She would _never_ be the Vicomte's! Not while Erik had a breath left in his lungs!

His jealousy quickly melted to a bitter sadness as he recalled the pain in her beautiful eyes, pain he had caused her. Damn him! He was not experienced in dealing with other people, especially the woman he adored with every fiber of his being.

"Oh, Christine," he moaned in a soft whisper of agony. Why would she ever concede to being his when she had a handsome, charming Vicomte ready to sweep her off her feet? Erik had nothing to offer her but darkness and pain. How could he ever compare to the Vicomte with his wealth and his status, …with his perfect face?

The self-loathing was churning in his gut as Erik sat in his chair before the dying embers of his fireplace, lacking the strength to stir them back to life as each long hour bled into the last. Then when temptation finally got the best of him, he found himself wandering the quiet halls of his home to her door, and like the wisp of a shadow, he slipped inside.

Christine was asleep; he knew it the instant he entered the room. All the lights had been put out, and her gentle, even breathing met his attuned ear as sweet as a lilting symphony. Moving like a ghost with feet that barely brushed the floor, he went to her bedside and gazed down upon her sleeping form.

Despite the blackness of the unlit room, he could make out her every feature with vivid clarity. Darkness never bothered him; it was she who always needed the light.

Beneath the canopy of her bed, she lay on her stomach atop the soft mattress, one hand resting idly on the pillow beside her cheek. She looked more like a child than a woman, the pain and tension of the past months gone from her face so that all that remained was a pure innocence and an unfathomable sweetness.

With all of the tenderness of the world in his mismatched eyes, Erik stared down at her, hardly believing that she was truly here in his home, in the bed he had bought for her. He had envisioned it for so long, wandering in and out of this room with vivid fantasies of exactly this image so often that he couldn't yet trust it to be real and not another figment of a lonely mind. Lord, she was so beautiful. Dark curls, so thick and silken, tiny, porcelain features designed with a detailed precision by a God he had long ago stopped believing in; she was exquisite perfection to every curve of every little finger. He was undeserving of such beauty in his abhorrent life; everything else in his world was dark, bare, and ugly, …but her. It only convinced him further that she couldn't belong to him.

Giving a sorrow-laden sigh, he granted himself one more lingering look before reluctantly turning to leave her to her innocent sleep of a sunlit world full of divinely beautiful angels.


	2. Chapter 2

I wanted to get this posted yesterday, but since a bad day put me behind, I'm compensating with 2 chapters today. Yeah! Let me reiterate that when I wrote this, I was purposely after a different Christine. I wanted her to be more youthful and more like an ordinary girl. I just wanted to say that because this story is something different, and I truly hope that you enjoy it!

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The remainder of the morning and much of the early afternoon was spent in her usual voice lesson. He was teacher to her then, not phantom, not friend, not enemy, not jailer, not even Erik. He was only Maestro, teacher. Nothing but the music mattered during that time as the minutes ticked by unnoticed. He had a particular objective in mind when it came to her training. At times, he would scold; at times he would nod encouragement. But always with that one goal at the forefront, the melding of her instrument into the greatest ever heard on the operatic stage. He saw incredible potential within her that she feared no matter how hard she tried, she would never meet, not to his standards at least. Erik was a perfectionist, a genius musician who could eat, sleep, and breathe music, and while Christine adored singing, she knew that she could never be on that same level. But to please him, as was always her necessary impulse and had been since he had been the blessed angel answer to her prayers, she knew she would try as hard as she could anyway, always pushing herself for him alone.

Christine was beyond exhausted, but still she sang until at last Erik ended the lesson with the promise that they would continue the next day. He never gave her any indication if she was meeting his expectations, and at times, his lack of enthusiasm made her consider herself to be only mediocre. It was frustrating, to strive and strive to please him and yet never know if she was making any progress at all.

Giving a soft, resigned sigh, she glanced at the nearby clock to find it to be well after one in the afternoon. For the first time that day, she remembered the Vicomte, but strangely enough, she didn't grant him more than that one thought, finding that she couldn't seem to hold onto the desire to care, not when Raoul seemed an entire world, an entire _life_ away. …Strange indeed….

Their afternoon hours were spent in a comfortable sort of silence. Christine sat on the couch reading while Erik returned to his music. She had thought that concentrating would be impossible with him pounding out chords and then scribbling them down on his manuscript paper, but instead to her surprise, she found the sound of the piano oddly comforting, a disjointed background music that part of her relished. It reminded her of his constant presence and left her to silently revel in his incredible genius as she occasionally paused mid-sentence to listen in awe to the sounds he was drawing forth from the instrument. Heavenly!

As the afternoon dwindled away to the evening, she began to scoot and fidget on the couch, shutting her book and laying it aside as she cast an idle glance at her companion only to find him still completely absorbed in his music. Even her overly loud huff intended to draw his eye brought no response. Sighing despondently, she stretched out her legs in front of her and her arms above her head, stiff from sitting so long and lifted her eyes to the clock resting atop the mantle.

Five o'clock. It didn't feel like five o'clock to her. The solitude of Erik's home did not bother her; no, what bothered her was the darkness, the lack of windows and sky. She had never realized how much her body, her mind, her well being depended on glimpses of the outdoor world. In his underground lair, five o'clock felt the same as nine in the morning and the same as ten at night. She found herself missing the sun and the clouds and sky after only one day in the darkness; she could hardly fathom how Erik could endure an entire lifetime without them. …A lifetime without windows. Miserable couldn't begin to describe such a dreadful situation.

Determination suddenly lit Christine's eyes as hesitantly, she rose and made her way to her angel teacher, her feet barely making soft whispers across the carpet.

"Erik?" she called, cautiously breaking him out of his music-induced trance in a soft, cajoling tone with the lingering fear of his quick rising temper always in the backdrop.

Lowering his pencil, he raised semi-aware eyes to her, shaking lingering pitches and notes out of his ears. "Yes, Christine?" It was definitely new to him to be interrupted midway through a composition, …new but not entirely unwelcome, not when she was the interruption.

She could not help but shift on her feet, twisting her hands in front of her as she bid, "I was just…wondering something."

"What, may I ask?" A memory of her last request surfaced in his head along with an image of her and the Vicomte laughing together. She couldn't possibly still be pushing to see the Vicomte, could she?

"It's just…. Well, we've been cooped up in this house all day. I'm on the verge of going stark-raving mad." Her words were spoken with a melodramatic flare as she threw up her hands emphatically. "I can hardly stand it any longer!"

"And what are you proposing to do?" he asked, his jaw already tight and clenched. He was desperately fighting a battle within himself to hold his temper in control until he knew the real impetus of her question. It was a difficult feat when his impulse was to immediately respond with anger to concocted situations that were only in his mind. Blame and then learn why….

A broad smile spread across her lips despite his open suspicion. "Well, I was proposing that we should go out for supper."

Instinct bid him to adamantly refuse, his hand unconsciously rising to his mask to check that it was still secure, but even as his head already shook in a 'no', he was asking with the hint of curiosity, "Where would we go?"

"To a café," she immediately replied, quickly adding, "We could request a table near the back, whatever you like, just so long as we can escape this house for awhile."

Erik was hesitant. He avoided humanity at all costs, and never had he considered dining in a café amongst the same people who had too often in his life tormented and attacked him all because he wasn't the same as they were. Though he was loath to admit it, the idea actually terrified him; it could only mean disaster and pain at its culmination. Did she have any inkling of a thought to what she was truly asking with her seemingly innocent proposition?

"Christine," he began, shying as far back on his piano bench as he could, "I don't think that is such a good idea."

"Oh, Erik, please," she beseeched, dropping to her knees before him, her lilac skirts pooling around her shape. Grabbing his arm with both of her hands, she desperately continued, "It would only be supper; we could come right back afterwards."

He was struck mute for the moment, hardly hearing her words. His mind was too focused on the presence of her warm hands so casually upon his arm, branding him even through the thick material of his suit jacket. It was just an impetuous touch, as if it was entirely normal, the sort of touches that Erik had never in his life been granted and that he had envied the Vicomte for possessing as his. This was the exact way she had touched Raoul, so comfortable and impulsively during their conversation. Even now, he noticed that she gave not a second thought to her actions, her mind too determined on her plight and yearning for triumph. She obviously did not realize that she had _never_ before touched him freely or casually; no, she did not consider that, but Erik did. And it was that dared touching that completely undid him and made him concede.

"All right, Christine," he hoarsely replied, his voice tight with constricted emotion. "Whatever you like."

She gave a little cry of victory and jumped to her feet, scurrying off to her bedroom while he stared after her still dumbstruck and feeling the imprint of her warm skin on his jacket sleeve, her mark seeming to be invisibly imprinted upon him now.

Shaking himself from his trance, he slowly rose on shaky knees and called out after her with an unavoidable quiver in his voice, "Make sure to take your wool cloak. It's likely to be quite frigid up there."

With an exuberant laugh, she came bounding back into the room, already tying her thick, grey, woolen cloak into place. "I don't care! I don't care if it's so cold that I freeze to death! It would be only a pleasant demise if I am outside!"

"You speak so highly of it. It's probably already dark and therefore not much different from here, you realize."

"Forgive me for saying so, Erik, but you are most definitely wrong," she insisted, lifting her hood up over her dark locks. "Even dark, it's an entirely different world than yours, and ah! I shall be contented enough to glimpse the moon and the stars and get a breath of the fresh air."

He only shook his head in reply, and without daring to offer his arm or touch her again, he led the way to the awaiting boat and onward up to the bitter world above, a world that he would much rather curse and avoid.

As soon as they exited the catacombs through the gate that led onto the Rue Scribe, Christine gave a laugh of excitement and threw out her arms as if to embrace the very night around her. Erik had been right; it was already completely dark and quite cold, for it was, after all, the last weeks of fall and the verge of winter. It had snowed that day, she noted to herself, part of her wishing that she had seen it herself, the first snowfall of the year. A layer coated the grass and trees, and the streets and walkways were a slushy mess beneath the hooves of horses and carriage wheels. Glancing up above her head, she barely caught a glimpse of the glowing moon as it danced behind cloud after cloud, clouds that boasted more snow in their thick blanket.

Taking in a deep breath of the bitter air, she spun around on her heel, nearly losing her balance on the slick pavement. Giving a small giggle at her folly, she lifted her eyes to see if her companion was sharing her laugh, but Erik was not even looking at her. He was lingering back in the shadows of the gateway, scanning the semi-crowded street before them warily and carefully keeping his mask well concealed under the brim of his fedora.

"Erik," Christine called gently, sensing his unease, "you needn't worry. Everyone moves so quickly that they won't even notice us. Come on, _mon ange_. There's a café quite nearby."

Erik wanted to refuse and retreat back into the darkness. He hardly ever walked in the world, and when, on the rare occasion, he needed to, he always chose to do his errands late in the night when the streets were near deserted. Now with the bustle of carriage after carriage rolling by and the crowds of people walking the sidewalk only a few feet in front of them, he felt anxiety building in his chest against his ribs, bringing waves of an unconscious aggression to the surface.

"Erik," Christine called again, worry fringing her voice, and he forced his mind and gaze to focus on her, begging her with his eyes alone to understand. He just couldn't seem to make his feet move into the world that had always only ever denied him.

A reassuring smile lit her lips, and without hesitation, she extended her hand to him. Erik's heart momentarily forgot to beat as he stared transfixed that freely offered appendage. He suddenly felt himself moving toward her, and yet it felt like an eternity passed before he was at her side, meeting her bare hand with his gloved one. She closed her fingers around his palm, firm and unwavering, and to his surprise, her smile only brightened.

"Now shall we go?" she asked sweetly, and he could only nod his reply, unable to speak with her so near. Clasping his hand encouragingly in hers, she began to lead him onto the sidewalk amidst the bustling throng, feeling his grip on her hand tighten in the instant that they were engulfed in the crowd.

Letting the other people pass them by as they continued on in their own contradictory pace, Christine smiled up at her companion and explained, "The holiday is nearing; that's why there are so many people about."

Erik nodded and tentatively raised his eyes to their surroundings. For the first time, he noticed the ribbons on the streetlights and the vivid colors and decorations on each storefront. There was a strange lightness in the air around them, a sense of excitement, anticipation, and joy that the people themselves seemed to carry. He could hear the laughter of a group of children gathered before the window of a toyshop and the good tidings exchanged by complete strangers as they accidentally bumped into each other, arms full of packages. Even Christine was being overcome with the strange emotions, he noted, as she giggled and pointed to one store window that was displaying the richest of chocolates in red and green boxes with gold ribbons. Laughing still, she brought her free hand up to grasp his upper arm, leaning her face in close to him as if they were sharing some secret joke, and he could feel her bliss seeping into his veins, so new and unexpectedly light.

Too soon, they arrived at the café. Christine led him inside, only then releasing his hand as he disappointedly endured the chill that came from losing her touch.

The maitre de, a skinny man with a mustache, did not even look up as he stood at his post jotting down notes and asking at the same time, "May I help you?"

"Yes," Christine answered, suddenly taking on the grace of a fine-bred lady, "we would like a table, preferably one near the back of the restaurant, _s'il vous plaît_."

It was only then that the man lifted his attention with an obliging smile. "Of course, mademoiselle." But as his gaze fell upon Erik, his expression abruptly changed, his eyes widening for only the briefest moment before he quickly forced another smile to cover his nervous confusion. "Right…right this way."

Erik was not ignorant to the man's reaction, his anger flaring as a lifetime of anguish at the hands of humanity resurfaced in his memory. Why in the world had he agreed to this humiliation and unwanted public inspection? But one glance at Christine reminded him as she smiled politely at the maitre de and followed him to a table with Erik reluctantly two steps behind, keeping his face out of the view of the other people in the café.

The restaurant was not very crowded yet, and the maitre de was able to give them a table in the very back corner. After granting Christine another smile, the man cast one more long, hard look at Erik before anxiously taking his leave.

Oblivious to the maitre de's rudeness, Christine sat across from Erik at the small table and lifted up her menu as Erik tried to forget about the man. And yet as he turned his head a bit, he couldn't help but notice that many of the others in the café had focused their attention on him with open glances and whispers. Each was like a dull needle being poked into his skin with a sharp, unavoidable sting. It didn't matter how much he claimed to be immune to the ignorance of humanity; it still caused him pain even after all of these years.

"What do you think you'll order?" Christine lightly asked, lifting her eyes from her menu. As soon as she saw the look in his eyes, she worriedly asked, "Erik, what is it? What's wrong?"

"Nothing, Christine, nothing," he insisted, fisting hands beneath the table and out of her regard.

But she was not swayed, and as a waiter brought two glasses of water and gave an overt reaction with one glance to Erik's mask, she understood. Nonchalantly glancing over her shoulder, she caught sight of the other rude stares, and she was suddenly appalled with her fellow humanity. Who were they to judge what they knew nothing of? It made her suddenly sickened in a way she had not anticipated.

Only a moment's consideration decided her path for her. Reaching up to her hair, she released it from the few pins holding it back, and suddenly determined in her task, she gathered all of the thick mass of curls into her hands and twisted the bundle of tresses up onto her head, using her discarded pins to hold them in place.

Erik watched her, bemused with a genuine smile starting to curve up the corners of his lips. She looked utterly ridiculous with her hair pinned that way, a loose, overly large and messy bun right on the top of her head as falling curls framed her face, and she knew it even as she gave him a quizzical look in return.

"What?" she questioned innocently, twirling one falling tendril around her finger.

"What are you doing?" There was the hinted flutter of laughter in his voice, a sound she had rarely ever heard from him before.

"Giving our audience something better to stare at. Which do you think shall draw more attention? Your mask or my fashionably new hairstyle?"

She gave the ridiculous bun a pat, a self-satisfied grin on her lips that made a light flicker and dance in her blue eyes, and Erik couldn't contain a sincere chuckle from escaping him. He couldn't ever remember being so amused by anything or so utterly grateful at the same time. She didn't care what the other people in attendance thought or did, nor did she seem to care that he was wearing a mask at the moment; and that realization created such hope within him, one that he had never known before.

"He laughs!" Christine exclaimed triumphantly. "I made the angel phantom laugh! Sometimes I truly astound myself!"

Before he could reply, the waiter returned to their table to take their orders. This time he did not even glance in Erik's direction; he was too busy staring at Christine with an odd expression on his face that vividly stated that he thought she was crazy.

After he walked away again, Christine burst into a laugh that she had barely been able to hold back long enough to order, and Erik's eyes were riveted to her as an uncommonly euphoric sense of happiness bubbled within him. She might appear silly and a bit bizarre by society's standards, but he could only see her as adorable, delighting in her small, porcelain features beneath that mound of curls.

The rest of their dinner was much more enjoyable. True to her prediction, the restaurant patrons seemed too engrossed in Christine and her seemingly eccentric quirks to pay any heed to her masked companion. And Christine acted like a royal queen under all of the intense scrutiny and covert stares and whispers that Erik so despised himself. She just tossed her head to the side and laughed joyously to Erik as they shared a conversation, poised and graceful in her every movement from the way she sat to the way she held her spoon in her small hand. …She was the most beautiful creature Erik had ever seen.

After a delicious meal and a decadent dessert that Christine ate every bite of as Erik watched her in rapt amusement, they left the café and wandered back onto the Parisian streets among the crowds.

"Do you think my hairstyle was a success?" she asked with a giggle as she reached up to pull out the pins and send the mass cascading in a thick curtain down her back.

"I rather liked it."

"Yes, it will surely be the new favored hairstyle in Paris. Just watch. Next season every young lady will be copying my new trend, and you will know that I was the inspiration of it all." She tossed her head back to untangle any twisted curls, and Erik couldn't keep himself from staring at the locks, yearning to touch them and learn their silkiness. But he reluctantly refrained.

Lowering his eyes to his fisted gloved hands, he softly said, "Thank you."

She could sense the depth of his gratitude even as he tried to make it seem inconsequential in nature, and she gave a slight shrug, keeping with his pretense. "It was nothing really. I don't mind making a fool of myself on occasion; being onstage in the public eye practically demands it from time to time."

Glancing at her from the corner of his eye, he softly admitted, "No, it was more than that, much, much more." He said not another word about it, and after a moment's silence, she chose to let him end it there.

"Well," she began, stopping mid-step and spinning about to face him, "what shall we do now? It is still very early."

"Yes, it is." Pondering silently for a moment, he tentatively suggested, "What about a walk in the park?"

"That sounds wonderful!" Without a thought to her actions, Christine slipped her hand through his arm and guided their trek along the wet pathway.

Erik stared at that hand, and by its presence alone, he was suddenly confident in his every movement. This was the typical behavior of modern society; he knew that in his rational mind, but he couldn't stop himself from reading into her actions, into how she had so calmly touched him without even an inkling of disgust or fear. Maybe she wasn't so repulsed anymore…, or maybe she was forgetting the true extent of his deformity. Maybe he still had the chance to win her heart without having to steal it….

They were passing the edge of the city limits, the crowd having thinned out now that they were away from the busy stores. The cold and darkness made the park nearly deserted and therefore, as he gratefully concluded, the perfect place to stay out of humanity's always curious and prying eyes.

Just before they made it through the old, iron-gated doorway, a familiar voice broke the silence, "Christine?"

She stilled beside Erik, her entire body going suddenly rigid as she dropped his arm abruptly and spun around on her heel. "Raoul?"

Muttering inaudible curses beneath his breath, Erik felt a rush of hatred rapidly overcoming him and shrouding every previous pleasure.

Christine's hands quickly moved to smooth over her loose hair, tucking locks with flustered fingers behind her ears as she watched Raoul leave his halted carriage and approach.

"Christine! What are you doing here?" Raoul asked, rushing to her and immediately taking both of her hands in his. "I came to your apartment this morning, and you weren't there. I waited for over an hour, hoping you'd return."

"Yes, well, …I forgot that I had a lesson today," she stuttered nervously, casting a furtive glance over her shoulder at Erik. She knew that he was seething, and she felt compelled to insist that it wasn't her fault Raoul was there!

"I was worried that you had forgotten me," the Vicomte replied with feigned melodrama, trying to win a smile, but she just lowered her eyes under hesitant lashes. And for the first time, Raoul noticed her _male_ companion. "And…who's this?"

Shifting anxiously on her feet, Christine released Raoul's hands and gestured to Erik. "Raoul, I've told you of my teacher Erik."

"Your _teacher_?" Raoul skeptically replied, studying the man intently. "…Well, monsieur, …so you are Christine's mysterious teacher then?"

"I am." Erik's voice was tight, and Christine cringed to herself, knowing just how strong and consuming his temper could be.

Raoul uttered a haughty laugh over his own mounting discomfort. "And…why is it that you wear a mask, monsieur? Is it a sort of costume or something like that? Perhaps you enjoy remaining a mystery a little too much."

"Erik's famous," Christine offered before Erik could reply himself. "He chooses to keep his face hidden to avoid being overwhelmed by his adoring public."

Strangely enough, her well-timed lie pierced deeply into Erik like a sharp blade to the gut. Yes, if only it _was_ a famous face he hid and not the face of the devil!

"Well, to tell you the truth, monsieur, the mask draws even more attention," the Vicomte insisted, obviously believing her words without a doubt to the surprise of both Erik and Christine. "Next time you may want to choose a hood or a large hat."

"Raoul…," Christine interrupted, granting him a sweet, cajoling smile, "your carriage is waiting, and we don't want to keep you."

"Nonsense! Let it wait! That's what he's paid to do!" Ignoring Erik's presence, Raoul drew nearer to Christine and captured one of her hands in both of his, clinging tight and unbreakable. "Christine, I had been anticipating our date this morning so much. I barely slept last night to consider it. …Would it be possible for us to try again tomorrow?"

Rage boiled within as Erik's eyes stared fixedly at the boy's hands holding Christine's, and practically feeling the sting of his glare like a tangible touch, she glanced at him pleadingly for a brief moment. What was she pleading for? For him to spare the boy's life or for forgiveness for her actions? Or…was she asking permission to accept the Vicomte's proposal?

"No, Raoul," she softly answered, drawing her hand away. "I'm sorry, but I have lessons."

"You can't possibly have lessons all day! What about for dinner then? …Or after dinner even?"

Christine shook her head solemnly, and insisted without waver, "I am very busy, Raoul; I'm sorry."

Though his pride was obviously bruised, the Vicomte didn't dare show it, seeking charm and using it to cover his wounds. "Well, …I guess some other time then. Maybe next week. …Perhaps? I…I really should be going."

While Erik delighted in the Vicomte's rejection, Christine felt the guilt of it attack her with brutal force, and on its whim, she impulsively grabbed Raoul's hand back for a quick squeeze before releasing him.

"Goodnight, Raoul," she softly bid, and with a stiffly proper nod to her and one to Erik, the Vicomte turned and strode away to his carriage.

Only when the carriage was out of sight did Christine slowly face Erik again, and he noted with a surge of jealousy the subtle sadness in her eyes and tainting her attempted smile and cursed the Vicomte for interrupting and destroying their lovely evening. It was one more vibrant strike against him.

"Christine, …maybe it would be best if we returned home," Erik proposed although the very idea was disappointing; for the first time in his life, he actually found himself enjoying being outside, and it was all because of her.

"No." She shook her head with a begging insistence. "Please, not yet. I want to walk in the park. It was your offer, after all."

…An offer made out of sheer hope. "All right," he quietly conceded and led the way through the gate, making no attempt to touch her. He couldn't help but carry his own dejection; in a perfect world of her creation, he was certain that it would be the Vicomte walking with her, the Vicomte she'd be laughing and smiling at. When compared with the handsome boy, Erik knew he was an inadequate substitute.

Christine had kept her eyes lowered to the snow-covered ground, her mind reeling still, but as they entered the park, she averted her attentions back to her companion, willing her smile to return in hinted curves. Reading his unusually unguarded, somber expression, she gently asked, "Erik, is something wrong?"

"No," he quickly answered a bit too sharply.

Closing the distance between them, she abruptly stopped in front of him so that he had no choice but to face her. "Tell me, _ange_."

A frustrated sigh passed his lips as he met her determined eyes. "Would you rather that it was the Vicomte here with you right now?" He reluctantly asked the question that was torturing his sanity, but quickly added in a snapping tone, "Do not presume to lie to me, Christine; I'll know if you do."

She hesitated. In her mind, she asked the same question and sought an answer, surprising even herself with its revelation. "No."

"What did you say?"

"No," she repeated, and her smile was honest and genuine. "I don't."

"Oh." There were a million more questions that he yearned to demand of her, a million more answers that his mind ached to know, but he left it with that one, content for the moment with that knowledge alone. Braver now, he offered her his arm like a gentleman, actually inviting contact. "Shall we walk then?"

With a nod, she comfortably slid her hand into the crook of his elbow as if she had done so hundreds of times before, and he gently drew her onward, their boots crunching the untouched snow pathway with every single footfall.

To Christine's delight, one flake suddenly tumbled from the sky and then another and another until it was a steady fall of snow, gentle and light all around them like lace. Laughing her excitement, she stretched out her free hand to catch a few snowflakes on her fingertips, bearing their cold kisses and feeling them melt at first touch.

Suddenly releasing his arm, she dashed a few feet ahead and began to spin beneath the white shower, tilting her head back while Erik watched her tenderly at every moment. She continuously seemed to amaze him with her undeniable excitement and utter exuberance for life. It was not that she acted like a child, but she didn't act like a proper young lady either. She was something entirely different; she was Christine, and he knew that there existed not another like her, making him feel so grateful to have her in his life.

Halting mid-spin, she suddenly lifted her beaming eyes to her observer and called invitingly, "Come on, Erik."

She reached out to him, and he knew that he could not refuse, approaching in anticipating steps and taking her cold, bare hands in his gloved ones. Snowflakes speckled her loose hair and left raindrops instead on the warm skin of her face as they melted, and she tilted her head to the sky to welcome a dozen more.

The magic that she was feeling was beginning to affect him as well; how could he not become a victim to it? Letting go of one hand, he drew her near to him in a dancer's pose, his free hand boldly resting on her waist. They were a modest distance apart, and yet this was the closest he had ever come to holding her. Meeting her pleasantly surprised eyes, he slowly began to lead her in the steps of a dance, urged on when she willingly matched his movements without question.

Christine smiled. It surprised her how natural it all seemed. She should be pulling away, should be appalled at the very idea of dancing with her disfigured teacher like this. Only the day before, she was dreading having to spend three days with him. Yet now…now she was acting like a coquette, tossing her head flirtatiously as her loose curls tumbled over her shoulder, and though she wanted to scold herself, she couldn't. She wasn't even considering his disfigurement anymore; she was simply enjoying his presence, and that was enough.

Erik had similar thoughts on his mind. This was the first time in his life that he was acting like a normal man, doing what a normal man would do in such a situation. And it was remarkable and exciting and incredible; it was the happiest he had ever felt.

"I bet you've never danced in the snow before," Christine teased sweetly.

"I've never danced before at all," he replied, and while any other time he would have spoken such words with bitterness attached, at the present moment, he said them lightly, a passing comment not a regret.

Mimicking his mood, she commented, "Well, you're surprisingly good at it."

A deep chuckle rumbled in his throat as he spun her away again, relishing the way her hair floated around her with the motion. Before he could draw her back, not yet wanting to end the dance, a shriek resounded from her lips as she lost her balance on the slick, slush-covered ground and fell backwards with a loud thump.

"Christine!" Erik called urgently, rushing to her side with terrified eyes. "Are you all right?"

At first, he thought that she was in tears, but upon closer inspection, he found that she was instead hysterical with laughter. And he couldn't keep a straight face of his own while watching her, the curve of a smile upon his lips.

"It's hard to believe I was once a graceful ballerina," she commented beneath her grin, and laying her palm on Erik's arm, she allowed him to help her to her feet again, her knees shaking slightly beneath her weight before she was finally balanced.

"Your cloak is soaked." Erik had the urge to brush the layer of snow from the material, but he did not dare. That was much too familiar of a gesture.

Sighing sadly as she dusted the snow away herself, she said, "Well, it seems that we will have to end our walk. I'd wager that my teacher would be horribly angry with me if I caught a cold from our outdoor excursions, and he'd likely never let me outside again."

"You'd wager correctly," he agreed. He found that with Christine still half-pressed against him and her hand still holding his arm for support, he could not be disappointed about returning to the catacombs.

As they made their way through the snowfall and out of the park, she had straightened her posture, but she kept her hand on his arm and stayed a close distance; as close as two lovers would walk, he dared to note to himself.

Arriving back at the house on the lake awhile later, Christine turned to face Erik as they crossed the threshold of the door from the darkness of the underground into the welcoming light and the warmth it carried in its embrace.

"Thank you," she softly said. "I know that you do not often venture out into the world and that it is usually not a very pleasant experience for you. I don't even think I have words enough to express how grateful I truly am to you for taking me."

He shook his head. "No, I don't favor any contact with that world and its every cold corner, but, Christine, …this was the most wonderful evening I've ever spent."

A smile so bright that it could have lit up the entire extent of the catacombs filled her lips. "Yes, …wonderful indeed." Abruptly recollecting herself, she drew back to a more modest distance, the proper lady within her chastising her forward behavior. "Well then I think I shall go and take a hot bath to shake the chill out before bed…. Goodnight, _ange_."

Though he was loath to see her go, he simply nodded and bit back any protests. "Goodnight, Christine. Sweet dreams."

She nodded and with a final smile, scurried off to her room while Erik could only stare after her, his heart light and hope kindling in his soul.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning, Christine found Erik much as he had been the morning before, almost as if their little outing had never even occurred. He had returned to his proper, stoic self, sitting tall and stiff in his chair at the breakfast table and speaking to her in an aloof tone about what must be covered during her lesson. And though she was careful not to show it, she was greatly disappointed in this transformation of character, remembering how he had behaved the night before when they had danced in the snow and the light that had constantly glowed in his mismatched eyes whenever they had been upon her…. Better judgment concluded that it was for the best. It was Erik, after all, and it could only be considered very cruel to make him think of her as anything other than his student, …or so she insisted to herself to make her immediate sense of dejection feel less stinging.

From across the table, Erik cast furtive glances at her as she silently picked at her croissant, her fingers tearing off tiny pieces rather absentmindedly. Even as he obsessively wondered what she was thinking, he made no move to ask. No, it was no longer last night, and there was no snowfall intoxicating his sanity. With the first moments of awareness in his bed when he had awoken, he had been overcome with regret. He had almost forgotten what he truly was last night, and that could not happen again. He was no ordinary man who could woo a lady and capture her heart. He was no Vicomte who could whisk her off to lavish parties and walk in the sunlight with her. How dare he even attempt to pretend that he was? Even though he ached for her with every fiber of his being, he almost preferred the idea of keeping her as his prisoner, of forcing his love upon her. At least then, he would never have to worry that she was lying and humoring his affections out of pity.

Lowering his eyes to his teacup, Erik awkwardly lifted it to his lips and attempted to take a sip. The warm liquid splashed against the side of his mask under the unusual clumsiness of such a gesture, and as he set the cup back down, he hastily wiped it away with his napkin. Glancing back at Christine in what he had hoped to be a covert gesture, he found her staring at him.

"What?" he demanded curtly, wondering with a flush of embarrassment, how much of his little display she had witnessed.

"You don't normally eat with your mask on, do you?" she boldly questioned back, surprised by her own courage to ask such a thing.

Gaping at her, he snapped back, "Not usually, no, but I thought that my present company would appreciate a bit of discretion on my part."

Christine flinched at his tone, hurriedly insisting, "I didn't mean to be rude-"

"Oh no, by all means, say whatever you like." His sarcasm was thick and biting, growing harsher with every sentence. "I was only trying to preserve your appetite. Watching the skeleton eat would only disturb you, and I daresay I would not be very comfortable with your continuous stares when we are both already aware of how far your curiosity tends to run."

"You don't have to eat with me," she offered, trying to sound as polite and accommodating as she could, but she immediately regretted her words when she glimpsed the flicker of pain in his eyes.

"No," he answered softly, "I don't have to. Forgive me then that I do. It isn't a very common occurrence, you see, that I have a guest at my table." A bitter laugh escaped him. "Actually, this is the very first time. People don't come to visit me here, you know; you are the first and only. So if I seem to be bothering you with my inability to eat like a normal human being, I do sincerely apologize."

Christine was studying her hands in her lap, leaning back away from the table as far as she could manage. "I didn't mean it that way. I was only concerned because you eat so little. …I just want you to be comfortable and not have to adjust your entire life because of me."

"I would argue that I've already done that anyway."

Her brow creased suddenly, and with a rush of self-hatred, he noted that he had hurt her. He wanted to apologize and beg for forgiveness, but his pride was too strong to allow it. So with a growl of annoyance that made her jump in her seat, he shoved his chair back and rose from the table, stalking out of the dining room without a single look back at her.

Christine stared after him frozen in place for a few long moments before she hesitantly rose on shaking knees and began to clear the table. Dear Lord, how she hated having to be so guarded around his temper, pondering her every word before she dared speak it for fear of his reaction! And the only thing that she could do now was let him brood in his melancholy until it lessened enough for him to accept an apology.

But oddly impatient to set things right, after the kitchen was clean, she found herself seeking him out, treading so lightly across the floor that her steps made barely a sound. Coming up to him in his throne-like chair before the fireplace as he sat locked in deep thoughts, she slid to her knees at his feet, her skirts surrounding her crouched shape, and waited for a long moment before he finally turned and acknowledged her presence.

"Shall we begin your lesson?" he asked before she could utter a word. His brooding temperament had seemingly vanished, though traces of a profound sadness lingered in his eyes.

And she could only nod her consent and rise to follow him to the piano. …And all was forgiven, she noted as they started with her training for the day as if none of what had occurred at the breakfast table had ever happened.

* * *

The daylight hours dwindled away and an uncomfortable silence hung thick in the air. Her lesson had ended hours before, and not a word had passed between them since then, since the prescribed roles of teacher and student had faded away and left them with the ones they would rather not play.

Reading the same sentence of her book again for the twentieth time still without concentration to the words on the page, Christine found herself more attuned to the sound of Erik working in the kitchen preparing dinner. She wanted to offer her help, but she was hesitant when he was still in a teetering state of mind, knowing one word could cause him to fall back into a rage. The only thing she could do was stay out of his way and hope that he came out of it on his own soon.

But he didn't. All through dinner, he barely said a word, not even granting a look in her direction. A few times, she made a half-hearted attempt to begin a conversation, even opting for wit with the memory of making him laugh the previous night, but to her dismay, he ignored her as if she had not spoken at all.

Erik was sullen. As he left the dining room after a few meager bites of his dinner, he felt his own irritable bitterness as if it was a black shroud engulfing and suffocating him. A frustrated huff passed his lips, and he plopped down onto his piano bench, resting his fingertips lightly on the ivory keys. The ivory wasn't cool…; he couldn't feel it through the barrier of his gloves. He nearly cried out with a rush of his annoyance and abruptly ripped them off, throwing them across the room and watching with a modicum of pleasure as they struck the bookcase and tumbled idly forgotten to the floor.

Damn them! Damn Christine! He was angry at the world and everything in it tonight, but mostly, he was angry with himself. On the wings of his uncontrolled temper, he beat out a loud dissonant chord on the piano keys, now able to experience the cool smoothness of the ivory against his skin. Throwing all of himself into the music, he began to play violently, a rough, sweeping flow of melody, a million songs at once, a composition that he made on the spot with all of the emotion in his body to fuel its construction.

From the kitchen where she was washing their dinner plates, Christine halted in her actions and listened to him play. She was overcome as she always was, convinced fully that she was in the presence of an ethereal genius, but tonight there was something more. She felt a flush and a tingle over all of her skin from the top of her head to her toes, an apprehension, a nervousness, …an anticipation. She could feel the emotion that tainted his every note as vividly as if it was her own. And she knew that she was the cause.

Erik pounded viciously on the keys, the music swelling with the sensation coursing through his veins until he could not tell where one ended and the other began. It was as though his deepest desires and most intimate feelings were creating the song. He played of everything he wanted and everything that he couldn't have. He played of what he was and what he'd never be.

For a long time, he continued in that music-induced hypnosis, the melodies evolving and winding in and out of one another with the flow of feelings. It was the entirety of his life's story in one composition. He didn't write it down; he'd likely never be able to remember it to play it again. It was developed through the spontaneity of the moment. And finally as he gently wound it down, emotionally spent, he was able to detach his heart to end it.

When the final chord left him, he drew his fingers away from the keys with great effort. It was as though a huge burden had been lifted, dispersed into the music, and suddenly calmer and clear-headed with a definite direction for his desire, he sought out Christine. He was sure that she had finished straightening things awhile before, and he could feel her presence lingering about, knowing that she had been listening to him play.

"Christine?" he called in a tone that did not reveal his current state of mind.

Hastily wiping away the tears that had been coursing down her cheeks as she had stood in the shadow of the kitchen doorway, she immediately scurried into the living room. "Yes, Erik?"

For a long moment, he simply studied her, taking in every detail with his eyes. "You've been crying." It was not a question, but a confident accusation.

Lingering in the bow of the piano, she looked away with a twinge of embarrassment coloring her skin, rubbing her palms again across dry cheeks and stammering, "Yes, …I guess I have been."

"Why?"

"It was your music," she admitted plainly. "It was the most beautiful I had ever heard." She didn't say more, didn't reveal that she had been able to feel his every emotion, enduring them equally with him. She knew she didn't have to tell him; he already knew.

"Oh." There was nothing more to say on the subject. Rising to his feet as he stalked to the bookshelf on the far wall, his attention was momentarily captured by his bare hands. He should search for his gloves…. Yes, he should, …but he wouldn't do that now. No, …not now.

Finding a specific score on the shelf, he brought it over to Christine and held it out to her, watching as she hesitantly took it, scanning the title.

"_Roméo et Juliette_," she read as she lifted it in her hands.

"I should like to work on it with you. Are you familiar with it?"

There was the briefest flash of sadness in her gaze as she trailed her fingertips across the leather binding. "Yes, …my father taught it to me years ago. Gounod was his favorite. He used to say his dream was for me to sing this opera for him on the Paris stage." A reminiscent smile tugged at the corners of her lips with a rush of her memories. "I would sing Juliette, and he would perform all of the other roles from the highest soprano to the lowest bass…. I had almost forgotten…."

Taking in the depth of her sorrow for a past so far gone, he attempted to bring back her smile, commenting lightly, "He must have had a remarkable range."

And to his delight, she did smile, raising her eyes to meet his. "No, just an unending falsetto and low notes whenever he had a cold."

"Remarkable indeed." Erik took the score and flipped it to a specific page before handing it back to her examination.

Christine's brow furrowed, and she softly protested, "But, Erik, this is a duet."

"Yes." Avoiding her questioning gaze, he went to the open center of the room and motioned for her to join him, hoping she would not hear the trepidation in a waver of his usually strong voice. "I shall sing it with you."

A warm flush lit her cheeks, and half-mesmerized, she did his bidding, coming to stand before him, clutching the open score with knuckles that had gone white from the fierceness of her grip. _He_ would sing it with her! He, her Angel of Music! It had not been since days when she had believed him to be exactly that ethereal being that he had sung to her anything more than correcting notes in her lessons. And never had she actually sung with him as an equal. When he had been her angel, she had longed for that very thing, had dreamt of it, but when angel had become mortal, the dream had ceased as she had begun to look at him as merely a man. And yet, hadn't it always lingered in the back of her mind as an unspoken desire? How could it not when in the vicinity of that golden voice? And now…now it would become a reality.

"It is the wedding night duet," she said matter of factly, and then chastised how ridiculous she must sound. Of course he knew what the piece was! He had chosen it after all!

Erik looked at her strangely and nodded. "Yes, it is." He could not comprehend her foreign demeanor, the wideness of her eyes, the viselike grip she had on the score, the way she looked as though she was half a step away from bolting from the room. …Women were strange creatures indeed. Motioning to the music, he asked, "Do you know it?"

It took her a long moment to fully comprehend his words, her head reeling. "Oh, …yes, yes, by heart."

Still regarding her quizzically, he carefully pried the score away from her and brought it over to set it on the piano. Giving her a pitch with a single pressed key, he returned to stand near to her and said, "We shall begin at Juliette's pick up lines into the duet."

With an abrupt nod of her head and a constant wide-eyed stare, she mentally hummed her pitch and then began to sing.

_ "Je t'aime, o Roméo,_

_ Je t'aime, o mon époux…."_

"No, no, no." Erik stopped her almost immediately with an adamant shaking of his head. "You cannot sing it that way, Christine. What are you saying here? '_Je t'aime_', 'I love you, oh Roméo, I love you, my husband'. Remember this is your wedding night; this is your husband and the first and only night you shall spend with him. And the entire world is falling down around you both. Roméo has just murdered your cousin Tybalt, and your family will be calling for his blood in return. Already, he is sought after, and you know that at least for a time, you will have to give him up. But tonight…tonight none of that matters. Tonight you are both safe, and you are both loved. And fear is now anticipation. The anxiety that he will be caught and taken from you has now become the nervousness of a blushing bride preparing to share her husband's bed for the first time. And at this moment, to the both of you, young as you are, the future is being laid at your feet, and you are simply a man and a woman, desperately in love, the sort of love that survives both life and death." Erik could see the understanding light in her eyes, the flickering of the character building and coming to life within her, and he encouraged her with an eager nod. "Now sing it, Juliette. Sing to your Roméo."

He did not need to give her a pitch again; it was already there in her mind as if it had grown from her very soul. She looked at Erik, standing across from her, and with the eyes of her character, she saw far more than her teacher and sometimes friend; …she saw her love.

Holding his gaze in her own, she parted her lips and let the music pour forth, her voice rich and laden with emotion so real that the first sound from her brought a sharp shudder down the length of Erik's spine.

_"Je t'aime, o Roméo,_

_ Je t'aime, o mon époux…."_

For that one blissful moment caught in time, he allowed himself to fall under her spell, to be mesmerized by her eyes, her voice, her beauty, and to pretend that it was all for him alone.

With all of the intimacy of two passionate lovers, they joined their voices together and sang. Their voices weaved around one another's as if they had sung together a hundred thousand times before, or perhaps it was only because they had both envisioned it so often that it was already a comfortable fit, a perfect balance of sound and timbre. They both knew without any sort of confirmation that their music was heavenly, unearthly, the most beautiful ever to be heard, but they did not consider that now. No, now they were too consumed in each other, in the glorious emotion that sparked vibrantly to life and permeated the room to its every corner.

Erik extended his hands out to her, and without a thought of caution or worry, she lay her own atop. His touch was new and yet strangely familiar, his hands cold as ice against her bare skin, frigid like the catacombs he lived in, but the texture of his flesh was so smooth and soft. She reminded herself that these were the hands of a man who had rarely ever in his lifetime known the touch of another human being, as if that in some way explained an untainted perfection of skin.

And delighting with every bit of himself in the sheer contact, Erik gently lifted her hands and entwined them until they were palm to palm, their fingers dancing together. How amazing it was to experience the exquisite sensation of her skin against his! How had he lived his life, truly _lived_ it, without knowing this feeling?

Tantalizing and slow in his movements, Erik drew his fingers down over her palms and the length of her forearms as he began to encircle her where she stood. Coming up behind her, his arm bravely trailed across her stomach, learning the new texture to the thick wool of her bodice.

Christine shivered at his bold touch, but her voice never wavered once as she sang a line only to have him mimic it back. She kept trying to reaffirm to herself that she was playing a part, but her argument was becoming less and less credible. There were more than just fairytale emotions surrounding them. Never had she known anything as poignantly real and acutely piercing into her very body and soul as what she now felt. Every inch of her flesh was charged with sparks that both tickled and burned her in their consumption. Without a thought, she leaned back against his hard chest, falling deeper into his embrace willingly, feeling the power of every breath and every heartbeat with him.

Erik closed his eyes as he sang and tentatively tightened the grip of his arm around her waist, hesitant even then. Every word was a passionate declaration of his deepest soul.

_"Ton doux regard m'enivre,_

_ Ta voix ravit mes sens!"_

_ (Your gentle gaze fills me with rapture,_

_ Your voice ravishes my senses!)_

Golden notes were effortlessly flowing from his glorious chords and entwining with her own brilliant tones. Standing behind her, Erik gently nuzzled his masked face against the crown of her hair, breathing in her delicious scent and wishing with every fiber of his being that his face was bare and he could feel that silken texture of her lush curls against scars that had never known anything other than the cold hardness of a mask.

They were coming to the return of the melody where their voices would meet once again in rapturous sound. Imprinted with her shape against his body and praying its branding would remain forever, he released her to continue around and show her in his gaze alone exactly the potency she had on him. Dear Lord, the passion in her eyes struck him like an abrupt blow he had been unprepared for, and yet in the back of his mind was the insistence that she was only playing a role and playing it beautifully. But he would not allow himself to feel the disappointment that threatened. No, not yet. He only sang to her and with her, so completely caught in the moment and so desperate not to let it go.

Christine edged closer to her angel and closer still until there was not even a breath between them, and accepting her unspoken invitation, Erik's hands rose to delicately cup her cheeks, holding her face with all of the tenderness of a lover.

Their final note blended in crystal clear purity, their voices so completely entwined in an exquisite _pianissimo_ and then gently fading back to silence. Even without the music, the spell still held its captivation, and as he continued to hold her face between his hands, he was overwhelmed with the powerful urge to kiss her. He had never in his lifetime known the pleasure of a kiss, nor had he cared. And yet now…it suddenly was becoming painfully aware the sort of things he had been denied and had lived without, plainly clear and intensely relevant for the first time. It wasn't at all fair! To be refused the natural pleasures of mortal men all because of his accursed face! He wanted to be a normal man, yearned for it more at that moment than he ever had, …and he wanted to know a kiss.

Christine sensed the trail of his thoughts, her own mind taking a similar path. Without consideration to consequence or rationality, she was tilting her face upward, offering her lips in open invitation.

Did she know what she was doing? he pondered incredulously. And did he dare accept? Her lips were so pink, so full, so tempting. If he pressed his misshapen ones to hers, would they be as velvety soft as he imagined? Beneath the shield of his mask, his mouth was deformed, his lips swollen and bloated on that malformed side. Why did he believe he had any right to touch her with such a grotesque and pitiful excuse for a mouth when she was so perfect, so beautiful? Dear God! If he dared to kiss her, he would have to remove the mask; it would be nearly impossible any other way. And then what? Would he see that revulsion in her eyes again as he had the last time? Would she shrink away from his touch? Perhaps cower in terror? He wasn't strong enough to deal with such a thing again. It would cut him to his very soul.

Reluctantly, Erik drew away, pulling his hands back, their eternal coldness strangely heated from the contact of her skin.

Christine's brow furrowed in confusion and the bitterness of his rejection. "Erik," she bid gently, reaching out to him again with trembling fingers.

Jerking beyond her reach, he gave an anguished cry as if touch alone would be his undoing, and suddenly, without explanation, he fled from the room, from the house on the lake, from her, leaving her behind with only the resonating sound of the slammed door in his wake.

Erik ran and ran like a dark phantom racing the sunrise, and he did not stop running until he was emerging into the frigid, brisk air on the roof of the opera house. The night wind met him and encircled his body, caressing the uncovered portion of his face. He welcomed its frigidity to cool the fire in his veins. Taking deep, gulping mouthfuls that burned their way into his lungs, he slowly approached the edge of the rooftop overlooking the city, staring out with an utter desolation.

What was he doing? Capturing her affections like a normal man had seemed always beyond him, always something he could wish for but never achieve, and yet she seemed so willing, so genuine. To continue on such a path meant to trust in her feelings as well, to trust that she wasn't acting simply out of pity or a sense of duty, and he wasn't sure he could do that. It would mean giving her the power to crush his heart in her bare hands if she chose to.

But didn't she already possess that power? Hadn't she had it since the very first day he had seen her, the first day he had heard her angelic voice?

Sighing inconsolably to himself, Erik leaned on the thick ledge and stared off into the starlight. The cold stung the bare skin of his hands, and he found himself wishing that he had taken the moment to grab his discarded gloves before leaving. _Damn!  


* * *

_

Hours later, Erik quietly entered his home again. The throbbing of emotion in his body had dulled to endurable tolerance in its prolonged exposure to the cold. He felt numb to everything, and yet in the instant he closed the door behind himself, feeling automatically and mercilessly returned in a rush with the desperate longing to find Christine.

A warm glow from the living room called to him, and he followed it and slipped through the doorway on soft feet. Despite his attempted stealth, she heard him the moment he was entered the room.

Christine was dressed in her nightdress and wrap with her hair in a long, loose braid over her shoulder and pink-tinged skin as evidence to the hot bath she had very recently emerged from. She had been reading, or at least trying without much success, as she had awaited his return, but as soon as she had heard the door, she had tossed the book aside without a care, allowing it to land and rest haphazardly on the vacant end of the couch. Now she was leaning her arms on the cushion with her chin set atop them and her large eyes studying him inquisitively.

Breaking their gaze as he searched for words, he strode to the opposite side of the room and retrieved his gloves, quickly drawing them on in flustered motions. "I…I thought that you'd be in bed already."

"I was waiting for you," she stated simply, turning her head so that her cheek rested on her folded arms. "I wasn't sure when you'd return."

He didn't reply, only walked over to stoke the dying embers in the fireplace as the flames leapt back to life in a burst of orange.

"So," she began after a moment, "are you going to explain to me what that was about?"

"I hadn't intended to." Erik couldn't look at her, couldn't bear to have those beautiful eyes on his, so he kept his gaze on the fire, kneeling beside it and continuing to idly stoke the searing logs without real purpose.

Staring at his back, Christine found herself contemplating the line of his shoulders, not as broad as most men and yet not at all unpleasant to her. It was odd and unsettling to consider that like this, from behind, he was exactly the same as every other man. How cruel it was that such a concept could only be true with his back turned!

"That isn't very fair," she replied to his decisiveness flatly.

Erik gave a nonchalant shrug in return. "I'm not a fair man."

His emotionless tone frustrated her and caused a flush of anger to light her cheeks a deeper pink. Leaping to her feet, she suddenly stalked over to his crouched stature so that he finally had to look at her. "Well, I don't accept that!" she exclaimed. "Don't I deserve to know why you left like that and why you've been so intolerable to me all day?"

Erik abruptly got to his feet, towering over her in height. Though his rational mind argued with his intent, all that he heard was the threat in her voice, and he could only see her seemingly menacing approach.

"I owe you no explanation!" he bitterly snapped. Almost immediately, he regretted his rashness as she flinched and edged back away with widened eyes.

"I…. No, I guess you don't," she conceded in a small voice, and watching him with a hint of apprehension in her blue gaze, she returned to her seat on the couch, brought to discomforted silence.

Regret and self-hatred coursed through him and welled up until it was boiling so intensely within him that he had to let it out. With a fierce growl, he suddenly swiped his arm across the fireplace mantle, knocking glass objects that had been set upon it to the floor, and Christine cringed and shrank back against the cushions as she warily watched.

"Erik?" she questioned softly, and he caught the slight sound of trepidation tingeing her voice. Fear…, fear of what? Did she truly believe that he would ever lay a hand on her in anger? Yes, he had killed before, murdered, tortured, but he would never hurt Christine. _Never_. He would die before he would allow anyone even himself to hurt her. It was beyond the simple fact that he worshipped her with everything he was; even all of those years before when he had been at his worst, killing and maiming for the shah's court, he had _never_ laid a hand on a woman. Men were fallible; men often did things to deserve death and pain. But Erik had a respect for women and could never knowingly hurt one, especially his Christine.

Forcing anger away, he slowly turned to face her. She looked as if she was prepared to bolt at any moment, and yet a small glimmer of courage kept her frozen in her place. He had to wonder if perhaps she was waiting for him to attack and give her a true reason to fear and hate him.

A strangled sigh passed his lips as he slid to a heap on the carpet, desperate not to scare her further. "Christine," he whispered utterly lost.

Cautiously, she imitated his penitent pose, slipping down onto the floor and slowly scooting nearer to him, inch by inch until they were sitting across from each other.

"I apologize for my inexcusable behavior," he said after a long, silent moment, his eyes beseeching forgiveness.

"I just don't understand. Where is the man who danced in the snow with me last night? Why have you suddenly changed toward me today? …Have I done something wrong?"

Erik adamantly shook his head, stifling the urge to reach for her hand as he stared fixatedly at his gloves to remind himself that he had no right. "No, no, _petite_, you are an angel, and I am the devil incarnate. Don't you see that? Do you not understand that I am not a normal man? Being with you last night was some sort of a dream for me, a fantasy of something I can never have. It may be a harsh and bitter reality, but it is _my_ reality, the one I have had to endure for my whole pathetic life."

"I don't understand-," she began, but he held up a gloved hand to silence her as he explained.

"I have…boundaries; I've had to learn what is expected of me in life and what I can and cannot have or even wish for. And for the past years of my life, I have come to accept it and stop yearning for more when I constantly learned that there could never be anything else. I felt content making a solitary existence apart from the cruel world, knowing that there were things I'd never have as my own, the sort of things you take for granted, the touch of a hand, the warmth of the sun, …a kiss. I had accepted that they were sacrifices Fate and my accursed face required."

"But, Erik-"

"But you," he interrupted as if she had not said a word, "…you defy all of the logic of my existence. You take me out into the world, and you touch me, _willingly touch me_, …and you make me hope…." Erik trailed off in his words, and his gaze wandered to the fire roaring only a few feet away. Staring distractedly into the flames, he went on. "I know what my place is in this world because of my face, but when I am with you, I forget it. You make me feel like any other ordinary man. And likely, that means little to you when to me, it means everything."

"You are a foolish man," she said after a moment with mock sincerity. "And is that the reason for your coldness all day? Because I _haven't_ been treating you like the rest of society and shunning you?"

The way that she said it so concisely and straightforward made him suddenly aware of how ridiculous it seemed. Shaking his head, he insisted inarguably, "I am not the Vicomte de Chagny, Christine."

"Well, I know that," she replied with a sweetly teasing smile.

"What I mean is that I have no wish to be played with. I do not want you toying with my affections; I couldn't bear such a deceit. And if all of your kind words and gestures are a part of your womanly games and misleading friendship, then I beg you to end it now before we both suffer the consequences. You know already that I am not a patient or well-humored man."

"Yes, indeed I do," she replied, her smile only brighter. "Pray explain to me, though, Monsieur Fantôme, the impetus behind our duet tonight if you were so determined to draw lines between us? …You were certainly an ordinary man then." She could swear that she saw a slight blush tint his otherwise pale cheek.

"I wanted to sing with you," he stated as if it was the simplest of explanations.

"Oh?"

"Yes, I wanted to feel your voice wrapped around mine, beneath mine, atop mine. Every day I listen to you as you sing, and all I can think is how much I want to be singing with you. It is the most torturous temptation to me, to be so near to you, to be inspiring your voice to such soaring heights and not be allowed to join you, …to become one with you in song…."

As he trailed off, his eyes focusing on his gloved hands again, Christine felt a dull shudder rack her spine. His words were so innocent and yet so blatant at the same time. She reminded herself that to him, music and passion were inextricably woven together, that singing with her was a mere substitute for what he truly wanted.

In a voice that trembled with the very disconcerting well of her emotions, she inquired, "And…were you Roméo when you sang with me then, …or were you Erik?"

Erik paused in his answer, unsure what to say, and it was only after the silence stretched uncomfortably between them that he muttered, "I was merely a man by whatever title you'd like to call him. They both felt the same."

Her eyes widened, but she remained quiet, contemplating a response that drew no genuine surprise from her.

"And was it Juliette that sang so passionately with me, …or was it Christine whose heart so openly welcomed mine?" Erik could not stop himself from asking, even while instinct bid him to stay silent. How could he when the answers he was aching for were so near to his grasp?

Bravely, Christine lifted her gaze to meet his, a flash of strong defiance in blue depths as she insisted, "It was merely a woman in love." With that, she got to her feet, smoothing out her nightdress with fingers that she didn't want him to notice were shaking. "And now I shall go on to bed. May I expect that you will be cordial to me tomorrow, or should I anticipate a return to your sullen mood of today?"

"It will be a surprise to us both," he replied lightly, teasing her in a way that, though uncommon to him, was strangely comfortable. His heart was pleading to push for more words, more answers, declarations of fervent truths, but he did not dare. No. He would wait even if that meant seeking a patience he had never been fortunate enough to possess.

Her smile had returned at his playfulness, and with the flutter of a giggle in her voice, she said, "Goodnight, _mon ange_. Sleep well."

On the impulse of her whim, she suddenly bent down to him where he sat before the fire and pressed a quick, tentative kiss to his bare cheek, noticing how he gave a little start of shock as she pulled back again and scurried to her room before she could read his full reaction. Once within the sanctity of those walls, she threw herself atop her soft mattress and grinned up at the canopy ceiling, a grin that seemed to encompass her entire face and made her tingle all the way to her toes. The fingers of one hand unconsciously pressed against her mouth as if they could steal the kiss there and hide it away someplace safe, someplace where it could be relived by her mind over and over again. Already, it was being summoned forth and played out. How ridiculous…and yet why was it just so easy to make this into her reality? And she daydreamed on with anticipation in her veins.

Back in the living room frozen in place on the floor, Erik had pressed his own gloved fingers to his cheek where he could still feel the imprint of her lips as if they had branded a visible, physical mark upon his skin. Words did not exist to describe the tumult of thoughts and feelings, all bound together and accosting him without mercy. Did he hope? Did he dare hope? _'It was merely a woman in love,'_ she had said, her voice clear as day in his memory. Was it possible for her to be that woman? And if it was, …if _she_ was, …what did that mean?

But no, he could not dwell on that now, not when his mind wanted only to relive the last few minutes. With a contented sigh, he leaned back against his chair and let his mind daydream, his hand still cupping his cheek, not daring to let go as if the kiss itself would vanish and reveal itself to instead be only an exquisite fantasy.


	4. Chapter 4

On silent feet, Christine crept down the darkened hallway, a candle in hand, each step tentative so as to go unnoticed and unheard. It was quite early the next morning, and Erik was still in bed. That in itself was unusual, for the past mornings, he had given her the impression that he barely slept at all and was awake and beginning his day well before dawn and certainly well before her.

Hesitant in her actions and yet with the gleam of mischief sparkling undeterred in her blue eyes, she snuck to his closed door and reached for the doorknob. She had no plausible explanation for an impulsive plan or for the strange way she was feeling and had been over the course of the past days. It was unlike her, and in some remaining bit of rationality she possessed, it should be unacceptable. But at the same time, she had neither the power nor the ambition to stop it. Why should she if it brought such an incredible sense of happiness to every breath? Let rationality be damned! She would worry over it later, …perhaps the next morning when she returned to the real world and her vacated life. But today, today was a day for ignoring logic and savouring a bit of impetuousness.

Without a knock to announce her presence, Christine slowly opened the door to Erik's bedroom and peeked inside. A lingering apprehension for his quick temper kept her lingering in the doorway as she called in a gentle voice, "Erik, …are you awake? …Erik?"

She heard a muffled groan of his annoyance to be roused, and then all of a sudden, there was a frantic shuffle of the covers as his arm darted out to reach to his bedside table. She automatically froze in place, cursing her own stupidity as realization dawned. He was reaching for his mask to conceal his face before she could see him. She had not even given consideration to the idea that he likely did not sleep with the mask on for obvious reasons. Cringing with the expectation of his impending anger, she calculated the probability that existed for her to escape the room and pretend convincingly that she had never dared enter uninvited. …Not very likely at all.

"Christine?" he called after a moment, his voice still deep with sleep. "Is something wrong?"

Her smile returned to her lips. He was not angry; he was worried. Setting her candle on the dresser, she quickly bounded over to him, still clothed in her nightdress and wrap with a messy, unruly braid of hair falling over her shoulder, and without warning, she pounced atop the mattress as he jumped back to the opposite end of the large bed with wide-eyed and horrified surprise.

"What are you doing?" he exclaimed, clutching at the covers with one hand while the other hastily checked the position of his mask.

"Waking you up, of course." Scooting closer to her angel, she let her eyes wander over him, inspecting his bedraggled appearance with open amusement. She had never before seen him in his nightclothes, but indeed, he was now dressed in pajamas, very fine ones that were made of black silk. They were masculine at the same time that they were indulgent, and she actually found that she enjoyed this intimate image of him. His always-pristine hair was messy, out of place; his beautiful eyes were half-hazy with the remnants of some dream she had disturbed, a dream she had an inclination to ask about but dared not. And yet overcoming all of it was a sense of unease that he so obviously felt at her presence, unease that was bordering on fear.

"I'm surprised that you are awake so early yourself," he attempted to comment lightly, staring at her and taking in her tousled appearance with his own sense of uncertain delight.

Her smile grew, beaming with her sudden pride. "I've made you breakfast," she announced excitedly, suddenly rising to her feet so that she stood on the mattress and loomed over him.

Erik stared up at her, his eyes dancing with his amusement. "Breakfast? That you cooked?"

"Indeed!" she shouted with mock indignation. "It so happens that I am a wonderful cook!"

"A wonderful cook! Then why, pray tell, have I been the only one preparing all of the meals these last few days?"

"You never asked," she stated as if it was the most obvious answer, and her eyes glowed with an internal light that enchanted him. Staring down at him as she dug her bare toes into the soft blankets of the bed and placed her hands emphatically on her hips, she explained, "I didn't want to endure your brooding temperament again today, so I concluded that if I made you a delicious meal, you would have to treat me nicely."

"I should be treating you nicely all of the time," he replied with an air of self-loathing in the background.

Tilting her head so that her braid tumbled over her shoulder, she stepped closer to him until her toes brushed his leg with the barrier of the covers between. "Yes, you should, and now you shall. Today is, after all, a whole new day, and breakfast awaits us. So come on and play the courtly gentleman for me."

"All right. Let me just dress, and I shall meet you in the dining room."

"No," she protested with a small pout. "No dressing. Not yet. I want us to simply relax and enjoy our breakfast in our pajamas. Is that acceptable to you?"

The thought brought a sincere smile to his lips, but he did not reveal the full extent of his enjoyment as he softly conceded, "Whatever the lady wants, she shall have."

"Good, then we are settled." Christine was about to jump down from the bed when she saw him once more reaching for something on the bedside table. Abruptly, she halted his actions by stomping a determined foot on the soft mattress so hard that it shook all of the bed including him. "Ah, ah, ah, and no gloves either. You are to leave them off today and from now on."

"Oh?" Erik hesitantly dropped what he felt to be a necessary article of clothing back onto the table and eyed Christine suspiciously. "And why is that?"

Her hands were back on her hips, her face scolding. "Because you don't wear them to keep your hands warm. I am no fool, Erik. You wear those infernal gloves to avoid touching me, which is utterly ridiculous. And I say that you keep them off, and as you have already so eloquently stated, whatever I want, I shall have. I am only repeating your own words, of course."

"Of course," he repeated with a pleased smile at the very idea of 'accidentally' brushing his bare fingers across her skin again. The warmth. The soft, silken texture. He had such vivid memories of every sensation from the previous night and the powerful need to feel them again.

Growing eager and impatient, Christine hopped down from the bed with a thump and faced him, raising her dark brows in anticipation. "Well? Are you coming?"

Erik hesitated for a moment more before he rose from the bed, sliding into a pair of slippers. He had no robe to draw on over his nightclothes; he had never needed one since he did not typically traipse about the house in his pajamas.

Christine watched him all the while with a certain, disconcerting tenderness in her eyes that she could not find the will to conceal or chastise. She was enjoying this relaxed and intimate image far too much, for it was one that she was entirely unaccustomed to seeing. He was not her teacher and angel now; he was not even a formal gentleman. No. Now he was a man…and more than that. More than a suitor even. Almost…almost like a lover.

Meeting her eye with an awkward smile, he followed her as she anxiously led the way to the dining room. To his delight, the table was set and breakfast was laid out for them. And even though he had set this table for a meal hundreds of times before, it was different; it screamed of the softness of a woman's touch.

With a giggle, Christine hurried over to his chair at the end of the table and made a grand gesture. "Your place, milord. Shall I serve you?"

"No," he replied immediately, "no, you are not to play the servant girl. You are to play the lady."

Her dark brows arched playfully. "Only a lady; I was hoping for queen."

"Queen it is then."

"Yes, milord," she teased and took her own seat as he did.

"So what have you cooked for breakfast, my queen?" he asked, motioning to the covered bowls before them.

With a flourish of her hands, Christine lifted the covers with a beaming smile. "It is a sweetened porridge that my father always made for me when I was a child. I hope that you like it. I know that it is nothing near the finery of your meals."

Keeping his eyes on her, he deliberately took a small taste of the porridge, awkwardly maneuvering the spoon to avoid his mask, and immediately, he lost a small sigh of enjoyment. "No, your meals taste like home."

She only beamed brighter at his compliment and lifted her own spoon.

Though they ate in silence, Erik was continuously casting glances at her when she did not notice, desperately trying to ingrain the entire scene into his memory, hoping to be able to capture the foreign warm feeling that seemed to permeate through the room to keep with him forever. It was strange and new like so many other things she made him feel, but this feeling was especially important, for it seemed to fill an empty void within him. He knew why. This was what it felt like to be a part of a family.

Switching his spoon to his left hand, Erik slowly reached toward her, hesitant and shy in his actions. He could not help but be reminded of all of the times in his childhood when he had sought a simple touch from his mother and had been brutally denied and cast off. But this was Christine, he assured himself. She would not recoil with disgust, …not anymore.

His fingers found her hand beside her plate, and though she met his eye with surprise, she did not pull away, only watched as he lifted her hand and turned it until they were palm to palm. With a tentative smile, he entwined his fingers with hers, savouring the sensation of her warm skin.

"Thank you for this wonderful breakfast," he breathed, his eyes moving from hers to their joined hands and back again.

She nodded and added, "I made you tea as well; I know how much you enjoy it."

Lifting a brow in surprise, he immediately poured himself a cup from the kettle on the table, never once releasing her hand. Bringing the cup to his lips, he carefully took a little sip, and his expression suddenly contorted even as he tried to hide it.

"It's…wonderful," he stammered, quickly setting the cup back down and trying to return his smile for her sake.

But to his surprise, she only laughed her amusement. "No, it's not! I'm sorry! I've never made tea before! I was just guessing at what to do! Your expression-" She had to break off speaking as the laughter fully overcame her.

A small chuckle escaped him as well as he watched her, intrigued. "It wasn't _that_ awful."

"Yes, it was."

"Yes, it was," he confirmed. "I just didn't want to displease you. You worked so hard, and the breakfast is so lovely."

"All except the tea." She was reestablishing calm even though a stray giggle escaped here and there. "I knew it had to be awful. It didn't look at all like it does when you make it." She gestured to her own cup. "I made myself coffee instead. Oh well! It was a worthy effort on my part."

"Christine," he softly bid with a gentle smile, and he drew the hand he held closer to him. "You are a wonderful cook, and I hope that you shall cook for me again. But I never want you to make me another cup of tea. All right?"

Her smile erupted into another string of giggles as she nodded her consent. "No more tea ever again."

Keeping his expression mockingly serious, he continued, "And now I shall go and make a pot of tea, tea which you have promised never to try to make again."

"Never again!" she exclaimed enthusiastically even as her jovial manner faltered a bit. "Oh, Erik, is it expensive tea?"

Shrugging nonchalantly, he answered, "I have it imported from India."

Christine was shocked and appalled at herself at the same time as she was laughing at her folly. "I'm so sorry."

"No, you're not."

If he did not seem humored over the whole situation, then she would have been more sincere, but he was just as amused as she was. "No, I'm not, but I will replace it. I'll buy you a new box."

"That will not be necessary," he assured, releasing her hand and rising with the pot of bitter tea. "I daresay it costs more than you could afford."

She gave a little cry of her guilt, but her smile never faded. "I'm sorry."

Erik just shook his head, mirroring her grin, and took the pot to the kitchen while she collapsed into a fresh wave of laughter at the table.

* * *

Once dressed and again restricted to the roles of teacher and student, they began her lesson. Erik was quite pleased with the growth and progress they had made over the past three days of extensive training, and he was loath to release her back to the world on the morrow. Of course, that was only one of the million reasons why he did not want to let her go, but he knew that he had to. He could not force her to stay with him when life beckoned her. The past days in her company had taught him that he would much rather have her as his willing guest than a captive in his home, that there was so much life and vivacious spirit that she possessed and that he was only now glimpsing, a spirit that she would lose if he made her his prisoner.

Christine finished a long cadenza with incredible speed and brilliance, her voice flowering on a powerful high note that seemed to vibrate against every wall and object in the room, and with perfect control, she pulled it back to an exquisite _piano_ before releasing it to echoes, a smile curving her lips. She knew she had done well.

"Lovely," he confirmed with a nod, still in his role as teacher. As a man who adored her, he wanted to gush with compliments and praise, but as a teacher, he had to remain strict and somewhat reserved.

But Christine was growing to know him well enough that she caught sight of the true extent of his pride in his eyes. It satisfied her to no end, and she had to bite on her lip to keep from beaming too brightly. She did not want to become too self-confident like Carlotta, the opera house diva. The most important thing Erik had taught her was that there was always something more to learn. She would always be a work in progress. That thought kept her from becoming haughty and arrogant.

"What should we work on next?" she asked, eager to please him further.

"That will be all for today," he replied, and she noticed the sadness in his gaze, a sadness that she was sharing in some way, for it meant that their time together like this was ending.

Without a word, she began to collect the music she had left scattered atop the piano, his music, the music that he had collected over the years and had spent the past three days teaching her. They were the usual tomes, scores of very common operas, but they were different to her because they were his. Trailing her fingertips tenderly over the leather cover of the _Roméo et Juliette_ score, she reluctantly gathered it up as well and set to work putting everything away.

The rest of the day faded, one minute becoming lost in the next, and a silence lingered between them. It was comfortable, but it was also edged in only partly acknowledged desolation that things would be changing upon the next sunrise.

After a quiet dinner, Christine excused herself to her room and a languid bath. As she soaked in a tub full of near scalding water and fluffy, vanilla-scented bubbles, her mind unwittingly drifted to Erik as it so often had in the past days.

It was a surprise to her how reluctant she was to leave. It was certainly unexpected. She had arrived hardly wanting to be there at all, and yet now…. She was growing to expect the sound of Erik's voice, the presence in the next room, the coziness of his little house. Such things were not only new to Erik, who had lived a solitary life; she herself had had to spend her past years with a similar loneliness…since her father had died. It had been too long for her to remember what it felt like to hear another's voice upon rising in the morning or before going to bed at night. She was enjoying it, but it was beyond that. There was no one else who she could imagine being with in such a way. Only Erik…. Was this what it felt like to be falling in love?….

Her entire body beneath the surface of the hot water stiffened suddenly at the question her overactive mind had posed. Falling in love…. Was she?…. Was that what these feelings were?…. She had thought that she was falling in love with Raoul a few weeks before when he had first resurfaced in her life, and up until these past few days, she would have declared with some certainty that she was indeed in love with Raoul…. But now…. She had not considered Raoul, had not given more than a thought to him in days. If she never saw him again in all of her life, she could not say that it would affect her much at all. But Erik…. If she were to lose him and never see him again, never hear his voice or his music, never feel a touch of his cold hands on hers again, there would become such an empty void within her that it would forever feel like she was hardly living her life anymore.

The breath left her lungs in a deep sigh with the arising revelations, feeling as if it was sucked out of her very soul. Maybe she was mistaken; maybe these were only the idle musings of a silly girl who had been denied the contact of other human beings for the past days. Maybe it was only because she was being contained here alone with him that she was pondering such things. Her heart gave a deep ache at that thought as if trying to tell her that she already knew the truth, that she could fabricate a million excuses and situations and maybes, but the truth would remain strong and unshaken…. She was falling in love with her angel teacher….

Her blue eyes were frantically wandering the confines of her small, elegant bathroom as if desperately searching for someone or something to prove her wrong. She couldn't be falling in love with Erik! It was…impossible and ridiculous! He may be her teacher and her once angel, but he was also the phantom…. He was also a murderer and a monster. And his face…. Just because she did not give a second thought to his mask anymore when she was in his presence did not mean it wasn't there, that it didn't conceal a deformity that had disgusted her to her very core on her one and only inspection of it. It was true that his tortured face no longer haunted her dreams transforming them into nightmares. Now her dreams were still filled with him, but his face was not considered. In fact, she could not say if he wore a mask or not in her dreams, for it meant nothing. Only his presence mattered. But just because it was not given attention did not mean that it had faded away. His deformed face was still there beneath the mask, hidden where she did not have to see and could almost forget. Had that been his initial intention? To make her fall in love with him so deeply and so desperately that once he himself revealed his face, it wouldn't have mattered? …If she had not stolen his mask away on her own, of course, and destroyed such a plan before it could have been brought to fruition…. Or maybe it had not been entirely destroyed, not if in some way, it was working now.

Erik and his face, was she petty enough to base her feelings and his worth on his outward appearance? She would not lie. She was still young and naïve, liking pretty things and the idea of social status, fine parties and elegant gowns. But at the same time, she was convicted in her mind and opinions. She often did not care what other people thought of her; she had to be that way to be an opera singer, for it was a scandalous profession for a woman. But no matter how strong she considered herself to be, she could not guarantee that when faced with his unmasked deformity again, she would not recoil. Sighing again, she concluded that she would simply have to wait and see.

Reluctant to leave the embracing cocoon of her tub, Christine slowly forced herself to emerge and dress in her nightclothes while her head was still heavy with thoughts. She could not deny it to her own mind: she was falling in love with Erik. And for now, she would allow herself to revel in that and act as her heart was bidding her to. Everything else would hopefully fall into place in its own time.

With a smile on her lips and a lightness in her heart, Christine hummed softly as she clipped her damp hair over her shoulder, and with a whoosh of her nightdress about her ankles, she spun on her heel and impatiently hurried out of her room to find Erik.

Erik was seated in his chair before the fireplace, staring thoughtfully into the flames, and the moment she crossed the threshold of the room, Christine noted the sorrow hanging around him, poignantly sharp as if it were her own. With a tender smile on her lips, she glided over to him, and still unable to draw his attention, she sat on the carpet at his feet and lay her cheek against his knee, keeping her gaze only on him as he turned to look at her and glimpsing the slight shock that went through him when he saw her there.

He did not speak; how could he when he was so entranced in the vision before him? She was like a little girl or a cherub, staring so innocently and inquisitively at him. Her skin was flushed bright pink from the heat of her bath, and her dark hair was damp and forming unruly curls around her brow. His gaze was drawn for a long moment to his hands in his lap before with a great trepidation, he dared to reach to her, tentatively granting a caress to her hairline. To his surprise, she did not flinch or move away despite how frigid he knew his touch was against her heated skin. Instead, she actually arched against his fingers, closing her eyes languidly for a deliberately long breath that she released with a contented sigh.

Erik stared at her, mesmerized and utterly in awe. His caresses grew more determined, more sure, his fingertips brushing down the length of her cheek to her jaw and back to her smooth brow. To his surprise, just like before, his skin seemed to capture some of the warmth of hers as it stole the cold all the way down to the marrow of his bones.

Opening her eyes to regard him with an unmistakable haziness in their recesses, she softly spoke. "May I ask you a question?"

"Anything," he replied immediately, knowing that in their present formation, he could deny her nothing.

"Well, …next week I have two days free from the opera for the Christmas holiday, …and I was wondering…if maybe I might stay here."

"Here? …With me?" He was barely able to form a coherent sentence as his mind reeled, his hand stilling against her hairline.

Christine nodded against his knee with a bright smile on her lips. "Yes, …may I, _ange_?"

She wanted to stay with him; could he dare believe in what he was hearing? It seemed like some cruel joke of Fate, which would be retracted once he accepted it as truth. And yet…. One look at her showed the genuineness of her request. He was overwhelmed…, amazed. His angel, his Christine wanted to be with him.

Radiating an undeniable elation, he nodded, staring at her with a look of absolute wonder. "If you wish, …Christine."

"I do…very much."

A slight hesitancy crept into his voice. "But are you certain that you would not rather spend the holiday with your friends? It is Christmas, after all."

She gave a small shake of her head. "No, Christmas is about family, and I've no family to spend it with."

"Neither do I…. I've never actually celebrated Christmas before."

"Never?" she asked with sadness tingeing her voice at the very thought.

"Never," Erik confirmed, glancing back at the flames so that she would not see the true extent of a lifetime of only tragic memories.

His admission only made her all the more determined. "Well, then we shall be each other's family to celebrate the holiday. And it will be lovely."

"Lovely," he repeated with a gentle smile. The excitement in her was making him anticipate it as well for the first time in his life.

Leaning against his knee, she let her eyes flutter shut; it would have been only too easy to fall asleep right there in the living room near the crackling fire with his hand so gently trailing her cheek. But no. Her fatigue was making her brave. Staring up at him, innocently timid, she softly bid, "Will you…will you hold me?"

His smile and the warmth in his eyes grew tenfold, and with a frantic beating of his heart, he tentatively nodded. As he watched her, unsure of what to do, she rose from the floor, and with a gaze still hesitant and questioning the boundaries between them, she slowly climbed onto his lap, curling up against him on the chair more securely as she grew more courageous.

Erik stared at her, wide-eyed. The weight and warmth of her body fitting against his thrilled him so much that he was terrified to accept it as reality. He wanted to completely lose himself in that moment, in her. Still yet unsure of acceptable behavior in such a situation, he slowly brought his arms around her, and the instant they encircled her small frame, she gave a delighted sigh and cuddled even closer. His immediate, instinctual reaction to her boldness was to fearfully shrink back into the cushions of the chair as every muscle stiffened and went rigid against her. It took long moments of becoming accustomed to this foreign contact before some of the tension began to fade away and he was able to feign a semblance of calmness.

Christine knew that she was playing with fire, but she couldn't find the inclination to chastise herself. This was Erik, her angel. Her cheek was resting against his chest just below his throat, and she could feel each straggled breath he took and the racing of his heart in her ear. He was so nervous and almost afraid that she almost regretted her rashness, but as the moments ticked by and he grew more comfortable and relaxed against her, she smiled to herself and simply breathed him in.

Wrapped in the circle of his arms, Christine was starting to grow sleepy as his heart kept a hypnotizing beat. She couldn't help herself; he was warmer than usual with her nearness, and he smelled wonderful, a scent she wanted to saturate herself in completely. And with his arms so securely around her as if she was suddenly made safe from every danger that the world could offer, it was easy to find sleep and wonderful, awaiting dreams within only moments.

Erik knew it when she was asleep, her soft breaths brushing at the hollow of his throat, and his eyes moved from the top of her dark head to the dwindling flames in the hearth.

What was she doing? Even amidst all of his delight, he could not keep himself from pondering the motivation behind her actions. Was this all a game to her that she was playing so mercilessly with his heart? How could he believe any differently when she had neglected to speak any real feeling? Tomorrow when she was returned to the presence of other people, most specifically the Vicomte de Chagny, would she play the coquette to him as well and forget all about Erik?

Erik knew his heart; he knew what he felt toward her, what he had felt since the first moment he had seen her. And if he were confident that she could possibly return his feelings, then this moment would have been the most wonderful of his tragic life.

Sighing hopelessly, he allowed himself to get lost in his imagination and pretend the woman in his arms loved him as much as he loved her. On the impulse of his fantasy, he tightened his hold on her and rested his chin against the top of her silken head, closing his eyes and breathing her into his soul. He fell asleep that way, and when he awoke again near dawn, he gently and reluctantly carried her to bed and left her to her rest, his body immediately becoming chilled where hers had made it warm.


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning, Christine quickly dressed upon rising and readied herself for an early rehearsal upstairs. Adding one final pin to her chignon on the back of her head, she gave herself a final inspection in the mirror before hurrying from her room. Immediately, the aroma of breakfast wafted her senses, and with a smile on her lips brought on by the memory of the night before, she entered the dining room.

Erik had been examining a new score of music at the table with a cup of freshly brewed tea before him, but when he saw her, he quickly closed the manuscript and pushed it aside.

"Good morning," he greeted, rising from his place until she sat like a proper gentleman.

"Good morning, Erik."

He gestured to the warm biscuits on the table, and knowing she was due to rehearsal soon, she hurriedly ate while he took his time, continuously glancing up at her as if he meant to speak but could not form the words.

It was not until she was preparing to leave, tying her cloak in place to guard against the catacomb's chill and drawing the hood over her bun, that he suddenly found his voice.

"Christine," he called, meeting her in the living room before she could depart.

"Yes, Erik," she replied, facing him with a smile, wishing with her whole heart that she did not have to go yet.

"There is something I have to know before you leave."

"What is it?"

Erik paused, faltering a bit in his intention. "I…. What I mean is…last night was…wonderful, but I need to know your…your purpose."

"My purpose?" she repeated, raising one dark brow with the hint of confusion. "I don't understand what you're asking me."

"I…I need to know why you were behaving in that way with me. I need to know…." His mouth was suddenly dry as he fought to find the strength to utter his next words. "…Are we falling in love?"

The smile on her lips beamed with life, genuine and yet stoic and ladylike as she answered with vivid honesty, "I think we are." She took in the look of pure amazement and happiness in his eyes for only a moment. Lord, how she wanted to stay longer! To revel in the emotions with him! But she knew she would be late if she lingered any longer. "Now I must be off to rehearsal."

Giving him one more grin, she quickly slipped out the door and into the catacombs, taking the path back up to the world.

Erik stared after her with tears in his eyes, happy that she had left and had not seen him cry. It was ridiculous to be so overcome with emotion, but he had no control over it, not when she had in one meager sentence, brought all of his dreams to life. He didn't deserve such happiness, such elation, but dear Lord, how he wanted it!

* * *

Rehearsals that day dragged on; there was a great deal of work needed for the new production. Monsieur Reyer, the director, was so disappointed in their progress that he kept the entire cast through their midday break and well into the evening, when, due to the late time of year, it was already dark as night outside.

Christine rose from her chair on the emptying stage and wearily stretched her aching muscles. She had only a small singing role in this opera, largely due to Carlotta's influence over the management, but she knew that her performance today had impressed Monsieur Reyer and the rest of the cast. She could thank her long lessons with Erik during the past days for that.

An image of her masked angel flashed in her mind, bringing her a blissful sigh. She remembered with vivid detail the way that he had looked at her just before she had left that morning, and the thought alone made her stomach flip with anticipation. She wondered if she would see him before she left for her apartment and the life she had neglected these last days. To her disappointment, she had not felt him watching her during the day's rehearsal as he often had before, and her mind was tormented with the desperate need to know what he was thinking, …if he was thinking of her.

"Christine! Christine!"

Christine jumped out of her musings as Meg rushed over to her. They had had little time to converse during the grueling schedule of the day's rehearsal. Meg had been engaged practicing the ballet number of the third act with the rest of the ballerinas as Madame Giry's discontented echoes had resonated and interrupted everything else transpiring onstage.

"Meg, how is the ballet coming?" Christine dared to ask, already able to guess her own answer.

Meg rolled her eyes dramatically. "I shall be quite sore tomorrow. Three days of relaxation is not very good for the muscles, you know." Christine gave a sympathetic nod as Meg added excitedly, "But you sounded like an angel, Christine. I could hear you all the way across the room. I've never heard you sound like that before."

"Sound like what?" she asked with a blush of embarrassment on her cheeks.

"So confident and determined, like a real diva. Even though your talent has been there all along, you're suddenly letting everyone see what you can really do." Meg giggled at her friend's bewildered expression. "You were incredible, Christine!"

"I have been well taught," Christine quickly justified, her shyness transforming into a slow smile.

"You must have an exceptional teacher."

"I do."

Meg's green eyes suddenly lit with mischief. "Oh? And would this be the mystery gentleman you've been pining for?"

"What?" Christine's mind had been dreamily drifting to Erik, but reality abruptly came crashing in at her feet, her eyes growing wide with astonishment.

Laughing excitedly, Meg exclaimed, "Oh, you really shouldn't be so surprised that I know your secret! You've been starry-eyed for weeks. I thought it was for the Vicomte at first, but then I realized, to my curious shock, that it wasn't him at all and that there must be someone else. Is it your teacher, Christine?"

Christine's shock did not diminish. Were her emotions so transparent these past weeks to everyone but herself? Had she been growing fond of Erik long before she herself even realized? Up until she had learned he was a man, she had believed that she was falling in love with an angel, but after she had seen his face, she had considered her emotions to have been halted and destroyed. …Or maybe they hadn't been at all. Maybe she had felt this way all along in spite of his deception and his face. Maybe she had always been in love with the soul….

Regarding Meg again with a gradually growing smile, she excitedly whispered, "You mustn't tell!"

The little ballerina crossed her fingers over her heart in a solemn promise. "So it is!"

Her smile only brightened so much so that she did not even have to answer.

"Oh, Christine!" Meg exclaimed. "How wonderful! Like some sort of romantic novel!" With a dramatic flare, she explained as if it was the synopsis of a book, "He's teaching you to sing and to love! If you published your story, you'd make a small fortune for sure!"

Giggling herself, Christine scolded, "Meg, you are terrible!"

"You must tell me all of the scandalous details!"

"Meg Giry!" Interrupting without remorse, Meg's mother, Madame Giry, approached the girls, a scowl on her lips. "It is time to go home."

Meg could only lower her head in concession. "All right, Mama." Glancing back up at Christine, she gave her a secretive grin and insisted, "We'll talk later."

Christine nodded in agreement and gave her friend a little wave as she scurried off behind her mother.

The opera house was emptying out for the night, the rest of the cast eager to return home to their families and a hot meal, but Christine lingered. The prospect of her cold, empty apartment was not very appealing when she recalled the coziness of Erik's home. Of course, she had no intention of continuing to stay with Erik; it was improper and an imposition and not very good for her reputation as a lady. But she was still disinclined to leave so hastily without even seeing him one final time to recall to herself while she spent the nighttime hours alone.

Waiting until nearly everyone had departed, she cautiously snuck down the darkened, empty hallway toward her dressing room and her pathway to the catacombs. She made a final decision that if he was not there awaiting her, then she would go down to his home uninvited. She had every right to do so, especially after her admission that morning. She had to know if she had been too bold and had inadvertently pushed him away.

Unlocking her dressing room door with trembling fingers, she opened it and stepped into the pitch-black room, closing herself within even as her fingers sought the oil lamp she kept nearby.

"Don't."

The whispered command made her halt her action in midair, her heart leaping against her rib cage. "Erik?" she softly called, unable to see anything around her or even sense the direction of his presence.

"Sshh," he insisted, pressing a finger to her lips to silence her, and any wisp of a doubt she had as to the identity of her companion evaporated at the chill of that long finger. The hint of a smile touched her lips, and yet without even the image of his shadowed outline, she still felt a queer apprehension tingle the length of her spine.

Erik could see her clearly in the blackened room, could discern the uneasy smile on her lips, but he had no intention of soothing her worry by granting her a light. No. Not yet.

He had had plenty of time over the long, torturous day to formulate this straightforward plan in his eager mind, and he had no desire to abandon it now. She had to know what sort of game she was playing and just whom she was playing it with. He would not become one of her unrequited admirers, chasing at her heels for just one smile, just one glance in his direction. No, he was determined to have much more than that.

"Erik," she whispered again more urgently when a long, silent moment passed, and he made no move.

"No words," he insisted back in a tone that was not to be argued with. Drawing nearer to her, he let his hand wander from the line of her brow over her silken chignon and down to the smooth nape of her neck, his fingers curling there.

Christine wanted to speak, wanted to indicate her anxiousness to be lost in such darkness, blind while he saw all, but she heeded his command, unsure of his state of mind. Robbed of her vision, she instead focused her ears on every indication of his presence, tuning in to the unsteady breaths passing his lips after only a moment. And then she willed herself to wait and remain patient for him to act.

Hardly sure of himself or what he was doing, Erik brought his hands around to cup both of her cheeks, holding her face between them with an unfathomable tenderness. Acting on desire rather than thought, he hoarsely whispered, "Have you any idea how I've longed to kiss you?"

She did not have the chance to answer as realization set in, and then she was feeling his approach, feeling the tentative grazing of his swollen, misshapen lips against hers. She shuddered. He wore no mask! The knowledge struck her and momentarily stunned her; that was why there were no lights, only blackness, so that she could not have even a glimpse of the shadows of scars.

Erik was dismayed by her reaction, that shudder that clearly told that she knew his face was uncovered. But she was not allowed to be disgusted! his mind insisted with decisiveness. She could not see it! She could not see! In this dark, how was he any different from any other man? Damn her infuriating curiosity! Had she not stolen his mask away and seen the horror, then she would not be recalling it now in her mind's eye and would not be repulsed!

There was no way he was going to let her force him away in revulsion now! Not when she had brought his hopes so high! Not when her words had inspired him to detailed fantasies of a future together! She would _not_ take that all away so quickly and callously!

With a sudden rise of conviction, he leaned back into her, and this time he did not just brush her lips with his. This time, he captured them in an unexpected kiss, a kiss that for about half a second seemed clumsy and inept but then rapidly transformed into an act of pure passion, pure fervency.

In that one moment, Christine forgot about his face, forgot about everything except his lips, his kiss, his touch. Nothing else existed or mattered, not who he was or what he'd done, not her own concerns or fears. She was kissing him back, timidity vanishing into need and want.

Never before had Erik known such sensations; he was overwhelmed with them. He knew that in his growing passion, his disfigurement was quite conspicuous to her. He felt it every time the high arch of his misshapen upper lip bumped into her flawless one and each time the open space and two holes where his nose should have been were grazed by her small nose. She would likely be envisioning those grotesque features in her memory, and yet to his surprise, she made no move to recoil from him, only met his growing desire with hers, matching his every movement.

In some perverse way, Christine was further driven to a heightened state of arousal by the very things that Erik thought would disgust her. She was savouring the odd texture of his lips and the strange, sinewy sleekness of his skin at that open gap of a nose as it struck against hers. Her arms eagerly were wrapping around him as she fought an instinctual urge to press her body to his in a very wanton way.

With a hint of uncertainty, Erik slipped the tip of his tongue between her lips to taste her; so sweet she was like honey, and to his delight, he felt her shiver at his bold endeavor and dig her fingers into the thick material of his jacket, arching closer to him until he was able to feel the outline of her body against his.

All sense of propriety fled her with the exquisite feeling of his tongue tracing hers, inviting her to fall head over heels under his spell. She was being overwhelmed by an undeniable sensation in the pit of her stomach that ended with a dull ache in the most intimate parts of her body, an emptiness that begged to be filled. Her knees were quivering beneath her weight until she was desperately clinging to him to keep on her feet, and yet never once did she fail to meet his kisses with equaled passion and urgency.

As Erik continued to devour her in kiss after kiss, his hands, moved to slip into her hair, pulling loose her chignon. Deep within him, he felt a need arising, an outrageously twisted need to press his grotesque, scarred cheek to her flawless one, to experience some sort of contact against skin which not even he himself could bear to touch. Disgusted with himself and such an unthinkable transgression, he suddenly drew his lips away, releasing her with a curt abruptness that left her head spinning.

Christine felt him retreating from her, building a wall between them, and she opened her eyes, nearly having forgotten that in this darkness she could only make out his shape; that was as far as her daylight-accustomed eyes could adjust.

"Erik?" she called gently, reaching out to him with a quivering hand. She feared that he would not permit a touch, but as her fingertips found his sleeve, he did not pull away. "What is it, _ange_? Have I done something to upset you?"

Erik turned to stare at her in the darkness, his attuned eyes taking in her kiss-swollen lips, her falling hair, the subtle flush of pink to her skin. She was a vision, a fantasy brought to life, and yet in the next moment, a queer terror gripped him and he darted away from her to find his mask, so carelessly abandoned on her vanity table. Quickly with unsteady fingers, he covered his face, checking and rechecking the placement to make certain that it was fitted correctly and fully. The reasonable side of his mind argued that she couldn't see anything in the darkness so it truly did not matter, but the rest, the part that was over-laden with the taunting and torments of a lifetime without acceptance, could never be certain. He couldn't bear to carry another rejection by her, another image of her disgusted eyes as she regarded his scars.

"Erik," she called again, her voice wavering. Without his body close to hers and the fire it brought, she could feel a chill and wrapped her own arms around her waist to ward it off. "Please say something, Erik. I can't bear this silence!"

Verifying the fastening of his mask one final time, he slowly moved to light her oil lamp, and the room was bathed in its warm glow.

Christine studied him as he hesitantly met her eye. With the light on and glowing, everything that had just transpired suddenly became acutely real as if before that when in the darkness, it had only been a dream, fuzzy at the edges and hazy in its essence.

"Did you think perhaps that I was your handsome prince charming?" he asked in a somber voice as if sensing the train of her thoughts. "In the dark, it's easy to forget; it's easy to pretend…. I almost forgot myself…. Funny, isn't it? That I should forget it when all my life has been created by it?… But that's your effect on me. You constantly make me hope…."

"And why shouldn't you?" she demanded back, determined not to allow him to chastise himself again.

"Why shouldn't I?" he repeated in furious frustration, taking a menacing step toward her. "You have no concept of what I have suffered in my life! I _know_ what I am, and I know how foolish it is to be playing these games of love with you. Hope is not going to change anything. It is not going to take away my disgusting face or make you be able to see past it. Hope is only going to end up destroying me and whatever I still possess of a soul."

Rather than backing down as she usually would have when he was in a temper, she stood tall and surrendered to the inciting of her own anger. "You don't know that! And you obviously have little faith in me to say such things! You've already decided for me how I will react and how I will feel! I am _not_ some frivolous flirt who would treat you so dismissively!" With a huff, she turned her back to him, crossing her arms with frustration over her chest.

A pang of guilt gnawed at him as he stared at her rigid frame, his own anger waning. "I know that you are not frivolous…. I'm sorry, Christine. I didn't intend to hurt you with my words. This face…it has cost me everything, everything I ever wanted, everything I ever dreamed of. It's an infection that poisons my very soul and makes me quite cynical to this world and everything in it."

Sighing softly, she faced him again, lowering her defenses with her arms as she tentatively demanded, "And me? Are you cynical towards me, Erik?"

Erik stared at her with longing eyes. "I don't want to be…. Actually, I'm _terrified_ of you."

Her brow furrowed with deep, cavernous lines as she watched him wearily take a seat on her vanity bench and hang his head in his hands, wracked with anguish over such a sincere admission. She could not lie; his words had struck her to her very core. It seemed that she would forever be trying to prove herself to him. But she did not consider that as he lifted his head again and warily met her gaze, overcome in the pools of his eyes.

Softly, as if the words were coming from his very soul, he revealed agonizing truths, things that he had never believed he would ever speak of to another living being. "I have spent my lifetime being ridiculed and tortured because of the way I look. There were times that I was beat and assaulted so violently that I felt sure I would die, that I lay huddled in pain in alleyways praying for death and an end to my miserable existence. And yet…none of it could ever hurt me in the way that _you_ can. I _never_ gave them the power to destroy me; I never gave it to anyone, …not even my own mother…. But you…you have the power to torture and kill me in your hands. I cannot even fathom the extent of the pain you can cause with one word, one gesture. And I'm terrified of you, of every moment I spend with you and even more so of every moment I spend without you."

Christine took in his every admission solemnly, knowing that no matter how much she wanted to understand, she never would.

Cautiously, she approached him and lowered herself to kneel at his feet, yet refraining from a single touch. Matching his hushed tone, she insisted, "I am not going to hurt you, Erik; I promise. You must trust me. These past days with you have been the most wonderful of my life. And the things you make me feel…." She trailed off, unable to explain her feelings in words to herself, let alone to him. She could only smile with the thought of emotions that swelled even now in her heart for this man, but all that she could say was, "I've never felt such things before."

Erik only stared at her, aloof and detached, his expression unchanging in its stone sculpture. "And don't the words sound beautiful coming from your lips, Christine?" A sad smile was laced in the bitterness of reality. "All I ever wanted…. But words will mean nothing in the end when you finally remember that you are courting the devil, …that you are kissing death…. Do you remember the day that you stole my mask away and saw my face? Do you remember your expression…, the look in your eyes?… I do…. I remember it as clearly as if it had just happened. It is the nightmare I dream every night after I fall asleep remembering how wonderful a day spent with you has been, how much you've made me feel like any ordinary man. And then I see your face in my dreams, …the horror you felt…, the disgust…, and I'm reminded that I'm not any ordinary man, that if you saw my face again, my heart would be torn in two…. I don't think I can endure that a second time…." Tears were glowing in his eyes at the memory alone, tears that he desperately fought back but could not stop. "I can't…. Oh, Christine,…."

Tears pricked her own eyes as he hung his head in his hands. For the first time, she was feeling the true extent of guilt for her actions, her intrepid curiosity. At the time when she had torn the mask away and seen the horror beneath, she had selfishly given no thought to him; she had only considered her own abhorrence and fear, her urge to run away in terror. She had never once considered how such a rejection would affect him, how it was still affecting him now.

Gentle and tentative, she scooted nearer to him until she could reach up and cup the side of his head with her hand, making him lower his hands from his face and regard her.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice choked with unshed tears. "I acted foolishly, …like a child. I never thought about what I had done to you and how I had hurt you…. But, Erik, I won't do it again. Never again. I…I couldn't do that now…to you…. I'm so sorry…." Her voice caught for a moment, and she had to calm herself with a deep, steadying breath before she could add, "Believe in me, Erik, _ange_, as I once believed in you…."

With a sudden sob, Erik reached for her, gathering her small frame to himself as she went up on her knees to meet him. He burrowed his head against the crook of her neck, pressing reverent kisses, as best he could with the mask in place, to the smooth skin there.

Christine wrapped him in her arms, laying her head against his chest and closing her eyes, breathing him in. As her small fingers curled around the back of his neck and splayed into the soft hair there, she felt him cringe and try to shrink away first before gradually calming, as anxious as he had been the previous night.

In a soft, tender voice, she asked, "Do you like it when I touch you?"

Erik exhaled a pent-up breath from his lungs, and turning his face against her shoulder, he answered honestly, "More than you could ever know. It's only that…it's very new to me and different. Never have I been touched by anyone unless it was out of violence. I had grown so accustomed to being treated only harshly in my life that I had begun to think of myself as untouchable…." He trailed off somberly, and she felt her heart lurching in her chest at the reality of his words.

"And…you've never touched anyone either?" She hesitantly asked the question, knowing that the pain was still so acute and near the surface.

"Never," he whispered back, and even as he did, as if clutching to the tangibility of his present situation, one of his hands entwined in her falling hair while the other traced patterns down the length of her spine, feeling her quiver and lean into his touch and marveling over that exquisite blessing. "You are the first…, the only." Lifting his head enough to regard her, he repeated her previous question tentatively. "And you, Christine? Do you like it when _I_ touch _you_?"

A slow smile curved her lips, and in the dim candlelight, he caught the faint trace of a blush on her cheeks. "Am I being brazen if I say yes?"

"I'd never call you brazen," he replied, urgent for her answer. "Do you like it, Christine?"

"You know I do." It was odd to her that she should suddenly be so shy. "It is very hard to believe that you've never touched anyone before." She leaned closer to him again, her smile teasingly secretive. "And it is even harder to believe that you've never kissed anyone…. Your kisses were…amazing." Her gaze was automatically being drawn to what she could discern of his lips from the edge of the mask.

Her blatancy astounded and delighted him. All he could think of was doing it again, but he dared not, not with the warm glow of her lamp to give form to shadows.

Forcing control over himself and his eager body, he gently released her. "You should go and rest now, Christine. You had a long rehearsal. That fool Reyer worked all of you far too hard."

"And how would you know that?" she asked playfully as she sat back on her ankles. "You were not at the rehearsal."

"Not watching it, no, but I was listening. I always listen when you are singing, _petite_."

"Always?"

Erik smiled tenderly at her. "Every note."

"As you should."

"And tomorrow after rehearsal, I shall expect you for your lesson."

She nodded dutifully. "Yes, Maestro." As she continued to stare up at him, her smile was faltering and fading, her expression gradually growing somber.

"Christine, what is it?" he asked with a wave of concern.

She forced a little laugh. "It's ridiculous really. I…I'm just going to miss you since I won't be with you again until tomorrow night."

"Oh." For a long moment, he could only stare back at her incredulously, unable to form a coherent reply. Finally, he said, "But I _will_ be with you. Do not forget. I am your angel, and what sort of angel would I be if I left you all alone?"

She knew the true intensity of his words, that he really _would_ never leave her now, that if she had held to any reservations in allowing him into her life, it was far too late to turn back. And she didn't care.

With a smile on her lips, she rose from the floor and drew on her coat. "Goodnight, _ange_."

"Goodnight, Christine." Erik watched her as with one final glance, she left the room and the opera house. But he had no intention of letting her walk home in the dark alone despite the number of holiday shoppers about.

Like the phantom they called him, Erik emerged onto the Parisian streets and lurked in the shadows of street corners and alleyways as he followed Christine's small figure to her apartment. He was her guardian angel, after all. When she was safely inside, completely ignorant of his pursuing presence, he lingered for a little while outside her building, still able to taste her on his lips and feel her in his arms with a shiver of anticipation dancing down his spine. Then with a reluctant sigh, he slipped back into the shadows and returned to his lonely home.


	6. Chapter 6

During rehearsal the next day, Christine could feel Erik's eyes upon her, bringing a distracted, secretive smile to her lips as she remembered every detail of the previous night. She had to be called back to attention twice by an infuriated, impatient Reyer, and after her second scolding as Carlotta was just beginning her aria onstage, Meg took advantage of the momentary reprieve and snuck up to Christine's side.

"Christine," the little ballerina whispered with a smile of her own. "And what, or should I say whom, were you daydreaming about?" The gleam of happiness in Christine's eye alone gave Meg her answer. "How romantic it all seems! …And though I'd prefer not to destroy your elated reveries, I thought I should tell you that we have a guest."

Brow furrowing with confusion, Christine turned a gaze to the empty theatre before them, and true to Meg's word, in the last row, the Vicomte was taking a seat. Before he could scan the cast and find Christine, she jerked her stare away, acting as if she hadn't seen.

"Oh, Meg!" Christine softly exclaimed. "What is he doing here?"

Meg laughed softly to herself. "I daresay you have _two_ suitors, Christine. And I don't think that the Vicomte is going to give you up so easily." The little ballerina glanced to the ongoing ballet rehearsal in the wings. "Oh, I must be off. We're going to practice the dance from Act Three, and if I'm missing, Mama will reprimand me in front of everyone…again." Before she ran off, she added, "You had better tell Raoul that you are not interested in him in the way that he wants. You can't very well just avoid him."

"Oh, can't I?"

To Christine's relief, Reyer was so angry again with his fumbling cast that he kept them through their midday break. She had thought that Raoul would eventually give up his plight and leave, but to her annoyance, he remained in the audience and continued to watch all through the afternoon, giving her little waves and smiles whenever she dared to meet his eye. All she could consider was that Erik was sure to be furious. But she felt inclined to argue that had not asked for Raoul's presence. This was _not_ her fault!

When at last rehearsal ended, Christine slipped to the back of the cast as Reyer gave his final notes for the day, and at his last word, she skittered off down the hallway to her dressing room before Raoul could see her. Avoiding him might be her only way to get rid of him.

Praying that Erik was not too angry, she locked her dressing room door behind herself and hurried to her mirror, unhinging it as Erik had shown her so that it swung open. Without pause, she scurried inside the protective passageway and closed the mirror again with a sigh of relief.

"Did you outrun your pursuers?"

Christine froze in her spot, lifting her eyes just as Erik lit an oil lamp to reveal his presence. "What?"

"Well," he began with an inkling of coldness on the edge of his tone, "you run as if the hounds of hell were at your heels. Did you lose them at your pace, or are they close behind?"

As soon as he asked the question, there was a sharp knock on her dressing room door, and Christine shrank back against the cold stone wall of the passage even though her right mind told her that even if her guest had been inside her dressing room, he couldn't have seen her within the sanctity of the mirror.

"Christine," came the Vicomte's muffled call. "Are you in there? Christine?"

She cringed to herself and slowly lifted guilty eyes to Erik, but he was not gazing into her dressing room at the telltale vibrations of a closed door; he was only staring fixedly at her, gauging her reaction with meticulous scrutiny.

After a long, uncomfortable moment of silence, he coldly asked as though Raoul was not awaiting her and had never been there at all, "Are you ready then? Shall we attend to your lesson?"

Christine gave a solitary nod, but her expression was wary and hesitant. She knew that Erik was angry, and not just at Raoul. But she also knew that she could do nothing to address it now. Not with Raoul's aggravating presence so near. She needed to wait until he was only an unthreatening afterthought in the background, so easy to extinguish from memory.

Not a single word was spoken between them as they arrived at his home. Only when she stood before the piano listening to him beat out a few chords upon its keys did she finally find her voice, and softly, she said, "I don't know why Raoul was at rehearsal today. I did not ask him to be there."

"He enjoys watching you," Erik replied with a hint of sadness that she only picked out because she had come to know him so well, and though he spoke to her, his eyes remained locked on the keys before him with his continued feigned apathy. "And I cannot begrudge him that."

That was all he said on the topic. In the next instant, he was her teacher, and her lesson began.

For the next three days, they played those roles to perfection. He was teacher; she was student, and that was all. Every day Raoul attended rehearsal, and every day Christine found a new way to avoid him. To her luck, Reyer was keeping the cast through their breaks, determined to work them nearly to death to get the result he wanted, so it wasn't too difficult to neglect speaking with the eager Vicomte. Every night once rehearsal ended, she went off to her lesson with a very formal and professional Erik, who never once mentioned the Vicomte's presence and just as imperatively never gave credence to a night in her dressing room and a kiss in the darkness. And while Christine wanted to scream at the injustice of his cold temperament, she didn't. She was too exhausted from rehearsals and lessons and the toll it was taking on her to deal with the games of both men. So it was a retaliation of sorts on her part; she was furious with Erik and the way he was treating her, and she was punishing him by not putting an end to it, by refusing to give the reassurances he was obviously seeking and not begging for his forgiveness for things she could not change. He was being ridiculous! And she was being ridiculous right back!

Finally, she could not endure it no longer. Reyer was satisfied with morning rehearsal that day and actually gave the cast a break for lunch. In the back of the empty theatre, Raoul, who had been watching since they had begun, raced up to the stage, and this time Christine made no move to escape his approach, even coming to meet him.

"Christine," the Vicomte called eagerly, arriving at the foot of the stage and gazing up at her, "I've been trying to catch you for days."

Christine could feel Erik watching her, and she was determined not to care. Let him be jealous and angry! It would be a welcome change from his solemn, ceremonious attitude of late.

"I've been very busy," she replied as Meg warily came over to join them, and she noted Raoul's immediate look of disappointment. He had obviously wanted her all to himself, but Christine was actually grateful for the little ballerina's presence, unsure how far she was going to take this little game she was playing.

The Vicomte tried hide his displeasure even as he continued, "I look for you after rehearsal every day, but it's like you vanish into thin air."

"Well, I have lessons once rehearsal ends, and my teacher doesn't like it when I'm late." At the mention of her teacher, Christine felt Meg nudge her side and grin her secret understanding, a grin Christine wished that she had reason to return, but with Erik's coldness, there hardly seemed to be a clandestine romance going on anymore at all.

Raoul only half-noticed the look between the girls and chose to ignore it. "Well, let me at least take you to lunch then."

"Oh, but Christine promised to lunch with me," Meg quickly lied.

"That's fine!" Raoul exclaimed, fake smile intact. "We can all go together. How does that sound, Christine?"

"Wonderful!" Christine mimicked his smile down to every fabricated fiber. "Meg and I shall get our coats and meet you in the lobby."

"Hurry. I'm terrified you'll disappear again if I let you out of my sight too long."

Christine laughed with feigned enthusiasm and hastily led Meg toward their dressing rooms, glancing over her shoulder to watch as Raoul headed in the opposite direction toward the lobby.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Meg asked, looping her arm through Christine's as they scurried in light footsteps. "If you want to make a run for it, I'll make an excuse to the Vicomte for you."

"Now why would I do that?" Christine's smile was now partly genuine as she spoke more to herself. "If he's going to choose to forget that anything ever happened, then the hell if I'm going to wait around for him to remember!" Straightening her shoulders with a sudden confidence and the coquettish happiness she had nearly given up, she laughed with forced delight to her perplexed friend and insisted, "Let's hurry. We don't want to keep the Vicomte waiting."

Meg knew there was much more that Christine was not saying, but she just shrugged her shoulders, shaking a doubtful golden head, and went along with her.

They had a rather enjoyable lunch together. Raoul kept both Christine and Meg in fits of giggles, reminding Christine just why she had always treasured his company. And though she didn't want to seem misleading, she could tell by Meg's questioning, confused glances that she was being just that as what she considered to be friendly encouragement was being misconstrued as flirtation by the moony-eyed Vicomte.

As they finally arrived back at the opera house, Meg hurried off to stretch with the other ballerinas, but before Christine could make her own escape, Raoul kept her captive by quickly saying, "Christine, I had a lovely time."

"I did, too, Raoul," she replied distantly. Her eyes were scanning the empty balconies and boxes above their heads. She could feel Erik.

"I would very much like to take you out again," the Vicomte continued, trying to draw back her waning attention. "Only next time I would like it to be just the two of us."

"Just the two of us?" His comment only then caught her ear, and she abruptly turned her wide eyes back.

With a guiltless, little laugh, Raoul insisted, "Of course, I adore Meg's company, but I can hardly be blamed if I want you all to myself. And I don't think we are being pretentious if we do not ask her to join us on our next outing. I'm sure she knows the way we feel for one another."

"W…what?" Christine stuttered, urgently glancing around them. Dear Lord, if Erik heard their conversation…. Yes, she had been the one to begin this game, but Raoul was taking it much further than she had intended.

Before she realized what he was doing, Raoul caught her hand in both of his and drew it near to his chest. Even as he felt her furiously trying to pull free, he held tight. "Oh, you needn't worry, Christine. It is entirely proper for us to hold hands at this stage in our relationship. No one will think it improper or scandalous."

"Our relationship?" she gasped out, still desperately trying to yank free. "Raoul, please let go. I…I have to get back to rehearsal."

With a reluctant sigh, he loosened his hold as she immediately snatched her hand away. "All right. I wouldn't want to anger Reyer and get you on bad terms with him…. Although I'm sure that since _I_ am your distraction, he would hardly mind it if you were a few minutes late, …if perhaps we went on a little walk now before you begin."

Wide-eyed, she stammered, "But…it wouldn't be right…. I _have_ to get back to rehearsal. I won't use your influence to excuse me from working."

"You are too admirable," Raoul insisted with an understanding nod, "and I will respect that. What about after rehearsal? May I see you then?"

"You know I have a lesson."

"Oh yes, I almost forgot! I am in such a desire to have you all to myself that I can hardly think of anything else-"

Before he could propose another time, Christine quickly interrupted, "I must go now, Raoul. We are soon to start."

"Of course." Once again, he grabbed her hand and drew it to his lips for a quick kiss before releasing her with a smile. "We'll speak later, Little Lotte."

"Yes, later," she agreed and scurried toward the stage, her eyes still desperately searching the balconies, but she knew as clearly as if she had seen it herself that Erik had gone.

* * *

Finally, rehearsal ended, and with a hasty smile and wave to Raoul in the audience, she darted to her dressing room. Just like the past days, when she opened the mirror, Erik awaited her inside with a glowing oil lamp. As soon as she saw him, she skimmed his eyes with hers and what she could see of his face, trying to judge his mood. But he was accustomed to hiding his emotions, and his continued stoic air gave nothing away. She chose to say not a word about Raoul or their lunch or what she was certain Erik had witnessed. Instead, she imitated his formality and followed him, standing tall and determined down to his home.

Her lesson was decent, not her best due to distracting thoughts that persisted to torment, but it was sufficient enough to save her a scolding from her teacher. …Or was it just that he was too distracted himself to notice her foibles?

As soon as he closed the music on his piano, Erik silently rose from his bench and simply left the room without explanation. Christine stared after him, feeling confusion rapidly turning to dread. Swallowing hard, she carefully set her music on the piano before following him, her every footstep weighted with her trepidation.

There were very few places for him to go in his small house to flee her, and after a brief search, she discovered that he had successfully snuck out of the house entirely without her hearing. She found him outside, standing before his lake, staring distantly over the still water. There was an unearthly light that played over the surface as it always did, giving it a glow as if it was being hit with moonlight even as far beneath the ground as they were. It was almost mesmerizing.

Christine crossed her arms and vigorously rubbed her frozen skin. A definite chill was in the air that went far beyond the normal coldness of the catacombs; she felt it inside and out.

"Erik," she called, testing his mood, "it's quite cold out here. Would you like me to get you a cloak?"

"No," he replied without even looking at her, but to her surprise, there was no malice in his tone, only a withdrawn sort of emptiness.

She could not understand why he was not raging at her; she had prepared herself for it and had almost anticipated it. And in some, strange way, she was the one who felt angered by its loss.

"Erik," she called again more urgently.

"Get your things, Christine. I'll take you back."

She was about to go and do his bidding without protest, the obeying child, but she stopped herself on the threshold of his house and flipped back around. "Wait, …no. We need to have a discussion."

"Do we? What about?"

His nonchalance only infuriated her all the more, and she stalked over to his side, facing him even though he wouldn't face her. "I had lunch with the Vicomte today."

"Oh? Did you?"

Christine felt the anger building within her, giving a sharp huff of her annoyance as she insisted, "You know I did."

"And how would I know that? How would I know anything of it unless you told me?"

"You watch me!" she exclaimed, clenching and unclenching her fists at her sides. "You _always _watch me!"

At that, he finally turned, meeting her eye with a particular controlled calmness she wasn't expecting. "Whyever are you so angry with me?"

"Because…I…," she trailed off, trying desperately to collect her thoughts. "I had lunch with Raoul. You saw us together after we got back; I know you did. And…doesn't that bother you at all?"

"What do you want me to say, Christine?" he demanded, and now she heard the definite edge to his voice. "What do you want me to _feel_? Do you want me to be furious at you? Is that what you want?"

Christine did not cringe or back away at the overt hint of the fire raging within him. She was _not_ going to fear him. "That would be a good start," she retorted instead. "And what about jealous? Are you jealous, too?"

His mismatched eyes widened at her provocation, and his restraint, the restraint that he had been so diligently practicing, broke. "Do you really want to see me jealous, Christine?" he suddenly roared at her, his hands darting out to catch her by her upper arms lest she try to flee the wrath she had ignorantly incited.

But to his astonishment, she remained still and firm even in his viselike hold. "Yes! Yes, that's exactly what I want!"

He suddenly shook her by her upper arms, his masked face mere inches from hers. "I could've torn that boy's head from his neck with my bare hands today! And you! You smiled and you laughed and you let him touch you! How could you? You have no comprehension of what you did! Was it your intention all along to hurt me?"

His bereaved pain stabbed her with a dull sharpness, but she kept her eyes on his, forcing herself not to look away. "I wanted you to be jealous. You've been so cold to me all week long, as if what happened between us meant nothing to you. And it hurt me…. I guess I wanted to hurt you back. I'd rather endure your anger than your indifference."

With an anguished cry, he abruptly let her go and faced the water again, pausing a long moment to calm himself before daring to speak. "I can't blame you because you are right. And I have no explanation for you that you could possibly understand…." His voice drifted off, and she almost thought that he would say no more as minute after minute dragged by. But then he broke his self-chosen silence with a hiss. "I hate the Vicomte. I hate him with every fiber of my being…because he is everything that I can never be, …rich, handsome, social…, and he has your affection."

"No-," she tried to argue, but he continued.

"Doesn't he, Christine? You enjoy his company well enough. You laugh at his ridiculous jokes, and you allow him to take you to lunch…in a crowded café in the light of day no less. I have such jealousy toward him that it rips me apart inside. And at the same time, I want to _be_ him, to walk in his shoes and live his life…. You deserve a man like that." Erik shrugged apathetically, still refusing to look at her. "I wanted to demand you never to see him again, threaten his life to keep you away. I wanted to follow him and strangle him before he could ever look upon you again. I wanted to steal you away and lock you in my home like a bird in a cage. …But I couldn't. I knew I would scare you and make you learn to hate me. …I couldn't bear that."

"Oh," she replied desolately. "But, Erik, I-"

"The Vicomte's in love with you, Christine," Erik stated flatly as if it was a well-known fact. "You need but say the word, and he will be yours."

She pondered for a long breath. Perhaps she had already known of Raoul's feelings; perhaps she had known all along. But did that change anything? "…And what if I don't want him to be mine?"

Erik's breath caught in his throat with a surge of hope, but he answered her with the same coldness, "Then you are a fool."

"Then a fool I'll be," she replied lightly. "But I'll be a happy fool." Closing the distance between them, she stood with her arms barely brushing his sleeve, yet still he would not grant her a look. "Erik, …you haven't touched me all week. Do you regret what happened between us? Do you wish it never had?" She did not allow him the chance to utter a word, responding for him, "No, you don't. I know you well, _mon ange_. But I don't always understand you."

Erik finally turned his gaze to her, and she could read in those beautiful, mismatched depths that he had wanted to reach for her, but had stopped himself before he could dare. "I am not a man, Christine; I am a monster, and the sooner you realize that and leave, the better off you'll be. I must beg you to be merciful. Break my heart now before I truly can't live without you, before I am so obsessed and consumed with you that I will do anything, lie, cheat, steal, murder even to keep you with me. Leave me now and don't look back."

Christine could not halt the little laugh that fell from her lips. "And do you truly believe that if I left, I would simply forget you, _mon ange_? …Do you truly believe that I'd _want_ to forget? That I want this to end? …That I want to be without you?" Tentative in her every action, she extended her hand to touch his sleeve, terrified that he would pull away. "I know you are afraid that I am lying to you. And you're afraid even more that I am not. I asked you once before to believe in me. Now I beg you. Please, Erik, believe me. My feelings for you are so plain on my heart, and if you would only look, you'd see them clear as day and bright as the sun."

"I do believe you," he revealed passionately, and one of his cold hands rose to gently cup her cheek, marveling at her eternal warmth and the thrill of her tilting face against his touch, her eyes closing as if she savoured it. "It isn't you, Christine. I'm terrified of myself. I don't know where the line is anymore between what is acceptable and what isn't. Loving you steals that away from me. I almost killed the Vicomte this week, _killed him_, and at the time, it felt entirely natural and even pleasant to do so! Don't you see what a monster that makes me? And how can I be certain that I will not hurt you in a fit of anger or even worse…?"

Erik was fighting the sting of tears in the back of his throat, but as Christine opened her eyes to look at him again, all he saw was the beaming smile that curved her lips. His urgent expression silently begged for an explanation, the words lost on his tongue.

Smiling all the more brilliantly, she whispered with wonder, "Loving me…. You said you love me."

He could hardly comprehend what part of his speech had captured all of her attention. "And did you hear everything else? Did you hear that I might very well kill you without a second thought and only regret it later when my sanity returns?"

Christine shook her head as if such an idea were absurd. "No, you won't. You don't give yourself enough credit! I know that you've had a…a past that…is rather morally questionable."

"That's a polite way to say it."

"Yes, well, it doesn't matter to me; none of it does. That was a different time in a different world, and you were a different person. You don't speak of it because you know that that is not who you are anymore. I trust you, Erik, even if you don't trust yourself, and I am not afraid of you. I know that you would never hurt me with the same certainty that I know I could never leave you now."

"Christine," he whispered desolately, turning the hand he still held to her cheek to delicately trail her skin with the backs of his fingers. "If only I had your blind faith in both of us! …I will try to prove, _ange_, that I can be the man you believe me to be-"

"The man I _know_ you to be," she insisted vehemently, her own hand coming up to press against the chilled flesh of his one unmasked cheek. Smiling with delectation in her actions, she shyly admitted, "I like touching you, …the way your skin feels…. It's been days, Erik."

His eyes lit, all of his hesitancies vanished for the moment as he was too tempted by her nearness to dare refuse. "It has…, and it's been torture for me to see you and have you so close to me every night and not touch you when that is all I have been longing to do…." The hand that had been stroking her cheek ventured into her thick tresses, his eyes all the while questioning if his actions were wanted. When she eagerly acquiesced, he slid his hand from her crown down the length of unruly curls as the few pins that had been holding them fell to the ground and released the mass down her back and over her shoulders. Casting inquiring glances at her, constantly asking permission, he entangled both of his hands in her beautiful curls, delighting in the way they twisted around his fingers as he combed through their curtain.

Without warning, his expression darkened, and hands that were still entwined in her tresses gave a firm jerk to force her eyes to meet his as he harshly breathed, "I have passion in me the likes of which you could never fathom. Passion, …desire…. I may have lived my life as a monster, but I still know their power and their potency." He expected her to try and shrink away from his blatant display, to look at him with only fear-fringed eyes, but she didn't.

"And…do you know them for me?" she softly asked with intrepid curiosity.

"So much, Christine," he fervently declared. His grip abruptly loosened on her hair, his touch once again gentle. "I never knew it could feel so consuming and overwhelming to desire someone; I can think of nothing else! …I ache for you!"

She understood his revelations far too well, her knees trembling beneath her weight with a mirror of its power. Her eyes locked on the smooth curve of his bottom lip, the only part of his mouth she could see with the mask in place. Darting out her finger, she dared to trace it, feeling the harsh breath that escaped his lungs and played over her skin.

His beautiful eyes were pleading for more, and made bold and unabashed by desire, she tucked her hair behind her ear and leaned slowly forward as if she meant to kiss him. He did not stop her, even though he knew the mask was a hindrance, only watched in rapt urgency. Her top lip met his exposed bottom lip, her bottom one pressed to the smoothness of his chin. It may not have been a proper kiss, but to Erik, it was the most provocative act he had ever known.

Despite the slight awkwardness of being unable to fully kiss him, Christine treated this like any other kiss, not daring to defy and hurt him by removing his mask on her own. If she could only ever kiss him with the mask in place, then she was going to make it as ordinary and as pleasurably acceptable as possible. Her mouth gently moved against his, her arms encircling his neck, and she knew that her intentions were met as with an abrupt cry, he gathered her to him and kissed her back as best he could.

When she drew back after only a moment, still caught in his clinging embrace, he hoarsely gasped out, "How I long to truly kiss you! This damn mask! My cursed face! If only it were dark enough here so that you couldn't see!"

His impassioned wish pierced her heart, and though she longed to protest, she kept silent, remembering only the pain her initial response to his face had caused and not wanting him to consider that now.

"Wait!" he suddenly exclaimed and released her for a moment. He reached for the fastenings that held the mask in place, fastenings that she remembered her nimble fingers easily working on that one night she had stripped it away.

As if assuring her, he insisted as he unfastened them now, "Don't worry, Christine. You won't see it; I won't let you. I only mean to lift the mask enough so that I may kiss you."

She nodded, but did not reply, and watched as he adjusted the mask, lifting it up just enough to reveal his lips and clasping it firmly there, not daring to let it slip and reveal more. With it shifted, he could only regard her with one eye, the other concealed, but she saw as he met her gaze, a frantic fear within him.

"My mouth is…misshapen…." His voice broke as it trailed off.

Brow furrowing, she glanced at his lips then and noticed what he spoke of revealed to her inquisitive eyes, the grotesque swollenness of his upper lip, part of which was even still hidden behind the mask. Strangely enough, she had not given it a second thought or a single consideration. She had already glimpsed it often enough in her dreams and her fantasies of kissing him again, reliving their last kiss in her head and not seeing him as a shadow lost in a sea of darkness, but as her Erik, whose lips with their disfigured shape had been pressed to hers and had ignited such heat within her body. They were Erik's lips, misshapen and yet his, and she had never once felt repulsed by them.

Without a word of assurance or a revelation of her private thoughts, she immediately leaned into him and pressed her own flawless lips to his misshapen ones fervently and desperately as if she had been waiting a lifetime to do so, as if it was an urgent necessity that she could no longer live without. One hand still grasping his mask, his other drew her flush to him, his grip not at all gentle or yielding, but she only arched herself even harder to his firm shape, her body throbbing with the consuming need to feel him fill her and stop the emptiness. Her lips were crushed so harshly to his that they were practically bruising, but she couldn't find the inclination to care, only yearned for more, and he did not hesitate to meet fierceness with fierceness, devouring and swallowing her in kiss after kiss.

Guiding her with the arm he had about her waist, he brought her to one of the strong, stone cave walls along the side of his home, forcing her back against the rock so he could keep an unrelenting hold while freeing his hand to explore.

Erik's tongue slipped between her lips, meeting hers as it delved deep, and when he pulled it back again, to his delight, she imitated his action, thrusting without shyness into his mouth to taste him. He wanted to groan and scream out with need at the same time that he wanted to cry, the emotions so intense that they were choking him. It was desire so overcoming,… and love so desperate and swelling within him.

His hand trailed up the length of her arm to her shoulder and the neckline of her gown and dared to venture beneath the edge of the material to find the line of her collarbone, tracing it to the hollow of her throat.

Erik felt a violent shiver take over her body, and pulling his lips from hers, he quickly retracted his hand, setting it upon her shoulder with the barrier of her sleeve between skin as he nervously insisted, "My hands are cold."

Shaking her head and arching her body temptingly against his, she replied in a voice that was so raspy with desire that she barely recognized it as her own, "No, they burn."

Covering his cold hand with her warm one, she lifted it from her shoulder and placed it back against the bare, vulnerable skin of her throat, giving a little mew of delight the moment his flesh touched hers. Encouraged, he found her kiss-swollen lips again with his, immediately falling back into the pulsing need of the desire searing his veins. Even as their kiss was fervent, his touch on her throat was deliberately gentle, his fingers massaging the muscles along the side and pressing to her frantically beating pulse. In the back of his mind, he was always a musician first, and he treated her throat like a sacred vessel for her exquisite instrument. A part of him believed that it had been created for him alone, for him to hear and train and fall helplessly in love with. It was only further attestation to his belief that Christine had been created for him, made by whatever higher being existed as the other part of his soul, something that he had sought for his entire miserable life and finally had found. That was the only way to fully explain what he felt…and how she could feel similarly for a monster like him when she was the most beautiful creature he had ever set his eyes upon.

When Erik finally pulled back from her kiss, his mask suffocating breaths, Christine softly begged, "Take it off, Erik. Please just take it off. It doesn't matter."

"Doesn't it?" he demanded half to himself, and suddenly releasing her, he stepped away and quickly reattached the mask, fastening it with fingers that violently trembled.

"Erik?" Christine whispered back, smoothing out her gown with her own shaking hands, still able to feel the cold, hardness of the cave wall imprinted on her back and the contrast of Erik's unyielding, warm body against her.

Not daring a look for fear that her appearance alone would drive him to do as she had requested, he firmly insisted, "Do not ask that of me, Christine. And do not think to do it on your own and steal my mask away again. No matter how strong you believe yourself to be, no matter how overcome with desire, …my face is still as you last saw it and were repulsed by it. It did not suddenly transform into something less repugnant because of how you've made me feel, no matter what your little girl fantasies would have you believe…. In those stories, one kiss changes a beast to a prince, a frog to a man…. Real life isn't like a fairy tale, and when you kiss me, I do not become a prince or a man…. I remain a monster."

On feet that barely made a whisper on the cave floor, she crept up behind him and slowly slid her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek against the thick, rough material of his suit jacket against his back. Erik was unaccustomed to these sorts of touches, these idle, random caresses, and closing his eyes to savour the feel of her soft body curving against his, he covered her hands at his waist with his own and entwined his fingers with hers.

In a tender voice, she patiently explained, "You are not a monster or a man or a prince. You are an angel, _my_ angel, and that is more than enough for me."

Her words thrilled him to the depths of his soul; how had he lived his life before her? Never being granted any sort of kind words, any sort of a touch? Now that he had that, he never wanted to let it go.

In one fluid motion, Erik turned in her embrace to face her. "You are a rare treasure, my Christine."

"Yes, I am," she agreed with a slight smile, "and for your own sake, you had best never forget it."

Even as she grinned, Erik took careful note of the fatigue in the depths of blue eyes. "Perhaps it is time for you to return and get some rest before tomorrow's rehearsal."

Nodding reluctantly, she wearily conceded, "All right, but instead of following me in the shadows as you usually do on my journey home, why don't you walk with me like a gentleman and a proper suitor instead?"

"You knew about my presence?" He smirked with amusement, noting that he must have been being careless in his attempt to keep her ignorant.

Her grin brightened mischievously. "I do now!" Laughing at his astounded expression, she added, "Well, you are my angel, and I knew you couldn't be letting me walk alone in the dark through the city streets. But don't fret, _ange_. You have not lost your touch. I have never once heard you or even glimpsed your shadow. It was all a guess, albeit a correct one."

"You are too intelligent, but yes, I think I will walk you home like a gentleman tonight. I have the incessant urge to gaze upon your smile for as long as I possibly can." Lightly and playfully, he left her embrace and offered his arm, which she took with exactly the smile he wanted glowing on her lips.

Above his underground lair in the world, the streets were alight and bustling. Erik was quite surprised at how intently these people kept the holiday season; it was compelling each one of them onward as they scurried down the sidewalks with package-laden arms.

Christine giggled at his perplexed expression, guessing at the train of his thoughts. "And it doesn't let up; it will only get worse until the holiday is finally over. I knew that you weren't accustomed to celebrating the holiday, but have you never even been about during the season to see the chaos of the city?"

He shook his head and admitted, "These past days have been the most I have ever spent up here. I usually avoid coming into the world as much as I can." He remembered how uncomfortable it typically made him to be anywhere near people, but the more time he spent here with Christine, the less it seemed to bother him. He would even venture to say that if this continued, he might become brave enough to one day walk in the sunlight with her among the Parisian people. With her at his side, he felt as if he could do anything.

Too soon, they reached her apartment, and turning to face her, he said, "Tomorrow after rehearsal."

"My lesson. Until then, _mon ange_. Now that you've seen me safely home, you can fly back up to heaven with the other angels."

Erik caught her hand in his and gave it a light squeeze, not daring to move the mask for a kiss. And with only that to suffice, he released her and watched her wearily enter her apartment, not daring to look away until she was securely inside and out of the harmful world's reach.


	7. Chapter 7

The next day at rehearsal, Christine was floating on air, and not even Reyer's terrible mood could dampen her spirits. She could feel Erik nearby, feel his eyes upon her, trailing over her as if he were caressing her skin, and she was tingling to her toes to recall in her mind's eye grasping hands and urgent mouths….

"Mademoiselle Daaé?" Reyer called, and Christine was jerked out of her daydream, scurrying onstage in bewilderment.

"Yes, Monsieur Reyer?" she called nervously. "Did I miss my entrance?"

"Uh, no," Reyer replied, looking quite flustered as he scanned the ballet being practiced on another part of the stage and shook his head miserably. Finally turning all of his attention to Christine's awaiting expression, he flatly explained, "La Carlotta will not be gracing us with her presence today. She has taken a cold…or so I have been informed. You are her understudy, and I need you to stand in for Act Two's rehearsal today."

"Oh…, of course," Christine stammered with a knot of fear in the pit of her stomach. She and Erik had worked extensively on the role; she knew it forwards and back. That was not the cause for her fear. No, her fears came from a lingering sense of stage fright and a lack of confidence that Erik continued to insist was ridiculous and yet existed just the same. After all, her usual roles were miniscule with barely more than a meager few lines. Carlotta's role was the diva soprano, the lead, the largest part of the opera, and Act Two held the scene of her big aria.

"Well!" Reyer snapped at her. "Go and get ready! We begin momentarily!"

Nodding and wide-eyed, Christine scampered back into the wings. Act Two! How did it even begin? Was she in the first scene? Why was it suddenly all a blur in her terrified mind? Clenching her fists at her sides and taking a deep, stable breath, she was able to calm enough to set the scene in her mind.

"All right!" Reyer shouted onstage. "Act Two: Scene One! Begin!"

A moment of panic attacked her, but then she felt Erik, felt his eyes on her, steadying her. She needed to see him! She glanced about herself to the shadows around and then up to the rafters above her head. And there he was in the highest rafter. She knew that usually he was nothing more than a shadow when about in the theatre. He wanted her to see him there. He said no words, did not even smile; he only gazed at her with such a strong determination that she felt it seep into her as well, washing through her. And she knew she could do it.

Christine heard her cue approaching, and squaring her shoulders, head high, she put a brilliant smile on her lips, one that concealed her nervousness behind its confident glow, and walked onto the stage, raising her voice in her first line of recitative.

Most of the cast rehearsing in the wings stopped what they were doing to creep near and watch her, curious about her talent after having seen Carlotta perform the part a hundred times over. And at the back of an empty audience, equally as inquisitive, Raoul was at the edge of his seat, an excited smile on his lips as he stared at her, mesmerized by her every note.

The scene went well enough; she only fumbled a few notes of the recitative, quickly correcting her mistakes so that Reyer never had to stop her. The aria was nearing, and she felt an anxious ripple course through her body. But she kept in character, dramatically waving the others off with a haughty air and her perfectly delivered lines that left her alone onstage.

The accompanist on the piano gave her a few chords, and in her mind, she heard the full orchestra that would play on opening night. And she was the diva; she was the character, and eyes that looked out over the stage were no longer her own. Each line of introductory recitative was a little more revealing, a little more frantic and desperate, and as her character lamented over a broken heart, she could feel her own heart ache within her chest.

The aria began, the beautiful aria that she had always dreamed of singing, that Erik had told her a dozen times she had been born to sing. With a deep breath that set her, she lifted her voice, no longer nervous or anxious as she reveled in the sound, in the song, in the delicious way each note and word felt in her mouth. She sang in a way she had only ever sung for Erik, and in the back of her mind, she could feel his eyes on her, his strength and his adoration. Lord, how she wanted to make him proud!

Christine came to her final cadenza, a particularly difficult passage that even Carlotta had butchered a few times. But she was not afraid because she knew she could do it perfectly. And as the piano faded away, her voice flowed over the runs with controlled agility, landing on a pitch with a little trill that she allowed to swell and quicken before leaping up to her final brilliant high note. It was as if it was not even her own voice coming from her, for even she was surprised by the clarity and power of that last note, soaring up to the domed ceiling and down to the cellars.

But the moment it faded, her concentration was shattered as in the back of the theatre, Raoul suddenly leapt to his feet, clapping and shouting, "Bravo!"

Christine's eyes widened, and she immediately flushed red as Reyer shot her a very annoyed look as though Raoul's impassioned outburst was her fault. But hastily giving an innocent shrug to the disgruntled director, she walked offstage, this time not scurrying like the childish chorus girl she had been only this morning. No, this time she walked with a new sort of grace to her step, like the diva she needed to be.

The moment she was out of sight, she felt the excitement bubble within her at her achievement, and with a beaming grin, she leapt up and down in her exhilaration, still quivering all over from such a feat. The act played onward on the stage, but there was another scene before her next entrance, and grateful for the moment's break, she pressed the backs of her hands to her flushed cheeks and sought calmness.

"Christine…." The seductive whisper met her ear, and she was trembling once again. Glancing about to be certain no one saw her, she fell back into the beckoning shadows near ladders that led up to the rafters. As soon as she was away, a hand caught her around the waist and another over her mouth lest she cry out, which she had no intention of doing. She was pulled further back into the dark recesses and around one of the wooden ladders as she was brought about to face her assailant.

He did not let her speak, keeping one hand at her waist, while the other shifted his mask and kept it in place. Without any sort of consent, he captured her lips with his in a ravenous kiss.

Christine kissed him back with equaled fervor, and as she wrapped her arms around him, her daring fingers ventured beneath the collar of his shirt and suit jacket to stroke the smooth flesh at the nape of his neck, thrilling as he moaned with delicious delight against her lips.

Pulling back after only one kiss, he said in a voice thick with desire, "That buffoon Vicomte thought that you were singing to him."

"Oh no," she insisted with a playful smile. "I only ever sing for you, _mon ange_. You are my inspiration."

The frantic desire in him changed at her words to a fathomless tenderness, his hand moving to delicately cup her cheek. "And you are mine…. Oh, Christine, I am humbled for you to say such a thing after such a prodigious performance. There aren't even words to express my pride when you sang. You were just as I always knew you could be."

Her fingers within his collar stretched upward to delve into the soft hair at the back of his neck. "Yes, because of you."

"No!" he insisted with such a ferocity that she wondered if he was angry. "I only believed in what I already knew you could do. You owe me no credit because all you did was prove me right. You are exquisite, Christine. You were born that way."

Her entire face lit. "Well, if that is true, then it is only you who brings it out of me. While I was singing, in the back of my mind, all I was thinking about was pleasing you, your eyes on me from the rafters…." She gave a little giggle of delight. "Making you so proud of me that you would grab me and kiss me as you just did."

"Indeed?" The desirous flame leapt back into his gaze as his one unconcealed eye languidly trailed over her, the contours of her face still flushed both with her achievement and lingering desire, the smooth column of her throat which held her most precious voice, the line of her collarbone, the modestly low cut of her gown which just barely revealed the swells of her breasts. "Christine," he breathed again with that unearthly voice, and she shivered as it danced the length of her spine.

Before he could take the lead, she leaned into him and kissed him lightly, one kiss. Drawing her lips a breath away, she used the tip of her tongue to trace the misshapen lines of his mouth, feeling him suck a harsh breath between clenched teeth at the mixture of perverse passion and awestruck emotion that she could do such a thing.

Encouraged, Christine kissed him again, her tongue parting his lips to enter his mouth, her body arching against the hardness of his. She could feel the lengthened proof of his desire pressing against her even through her layers of skirts and petticoats, and her own body gave a dull throb, an emptiness aching to the deepest core of her.

Erik reluctantly drew away after only a moment more, his free hand tucking a stray, falling curl behind her ear. "As much as I would love to continue this, you need to prepare for your next entrance."

Her attention drifted to the music onstage, and she realized with disappointment that he was right. A timid half-smile curved her lips as she inquired expectantly, "But I shall still see you after rehearsal for my lesson?"

"Nothing could keep me from you, _mon ange_." He pressed one more quick kiss to her pink lips before releasing her. With a slight bow, one hand still clutching his mask to his face, he drifted back into the shadows and to her eyes, almost seemed to vanish into their black embrace.

Christine stared after him for a long, transfixed moment before hurriedly straightening her gown and rushing back, knowing that rehearsal could not end soon enough for her anticipating heart.

* * *

True to prediction, Christine was growing impatient with her need to see Erik, jittering and shifting back and forth when offstage and huffing to herself when Reyer stopped her scene onstage and made ridiculously miniscule changes and then forced it to be done all over again from the beginning. The frustrated director promised that if they skipped a lunch break, he would release them from rehearsal early, and Christine nearly shouted her approval at the idea.

Finally, Reyer wrapped up the last scene. As he came to the end of his notes and the cast began to filter off of the stage, he purposely met Christine's eye and gave her a smile and a nod, one of the only smiles he had shown in days, and she beamed, knowing that in his own always-restrained way, he was congratulating her on her performance. All she could think was that she couldn't wait to tell Erik.

Skipping into the wings with a giddy heart, she was so distracted that she nearly ran into Raoul, who caught her with a hand on each of her shoulders to balance her.

"Oh, Raoul!" she exclaimed with a flustered laugh. "I am so sorry! I didn't even see you!"

"Obviously," he commented with his own laugh. He did not let her go immediately, his palms sliding down her shoulders to her upper arms, but she was so distracted that she hardly even noticed. "Are you all right, Christine? You seem a bit addled."

Tilting her head, her smile bright and laden with her anticipation, she merely asked, "Addled? Whatever do you mean? I feel absolutely wonderful."

Her playfully happy tone only urged him on as he gushed, "You should! You _were_ wonderful! I never knew you could sing like that! You amazed me!"

"Thank you quite kindly." For the first time, she noticed his hands on her and nonchalantly drew away. As an actress, she could keep her expression unchanged while beneath it, she felt entirely different, her smile never faltering but her guard raised to insurmountable height.

"Wait," Raoul insisted. "Before you disappear from me again, I was wondering if I might take you to dinner. You must be famished."

"But I-"

"I know, I know," he interrupted before she could say it. "You have a lesson. But after how wonderful you were today, don't you deserve a night off? I could explain your performance to your teacher if you wish. I'm sure that I can persuade him to give you a reprieve just this once."

"Miss a lesson?" She made it seem as if the very idea was a sacrilege. "How could you possibly propose such a thing? I must be entirely devoted to my art if I want to succeed as my teacher has well told me. There is no time for outside pleasures when one must be practicing."

"I'm sorry, Christine. I didn't mean to upset you." He flashed her an innocently sweet smile, always the charming gentleman. "I know that you must be devoted to your music, but I miss you. I want to spend time with you. Can you truly blame me for that?"

She smiled back, but beneath that, remained wary. "Of course not, Raoul. You are sweet, and I apologize for refusing, but you must understand that my lessons are of the utmost importance to me right now. You may even say that my teacher is the only man I can spend my time with at the moment." It wasn't an entire exaggeration. "Perhaps we'll be able to spend time together later."

Despite the fact that she had seemingly just rejected him, Raoul's hope-filled expression gave her a clear view of how infatuated with her he really was. Erik had been right, and despite her attitude to the Vicomte, which she only considered to be friendly, his feelings were being encouraged. Why was it that men took every kind gesture as flirtatious? Were they really _so_ conceited to believe no woman could dare resist them?

"I will hold you to that," Raoul replied as though it was a promise. "Until later then. Goodnight, Christine." He caught her hand and brought it to his lips for a kiss that seemed to her attuned eyes to be a little too long and a little too enjoyed.

Snatching her hand away with a fake stage grin, she hurried off to her dressing room, grateful for the space and distance. Locking herself in with a relieved sigh, she pushed all thought of the last few minutes away and rushed to her mirror just as the door opened automatically from the inside.

With a smile that was genuine this time from her very soul, she wandered into the welcoming arms of darkness. Immediately as she crossed the threshold, her bare forearm was encircled by cold fingers, and she was drawn right into his embrace.

Christine felt a swell of emotions and a tingle that raced her spine as she came to bury her face in the rough material of his suit jacket, letting his scent and nearness surround and swallow her. Barely, in the back of her mind, she heard the doorway behind her closing and knew that they were alone in his world.

Erik was relishing the softness of her against him, laying his unmasked cheek against the top of her head and experiencing the silken texture of her curls tickling his skin. His touch-starved body ached to feel those dark tresses running all over, trailing over every part of him along with her lips and her hands. Too many overwhelming thoughts to torture his brain….

Turning her face to press her cheek to his chest, she told him, "Raoul was trying to persuade me to skip my lesson and go to dinner with him."

"That damn Vicomte!" he growled, and against her cheek, she felt the vibrations of his angered words deep within him. "He has no respect for you or your talent, and he definitely has no idea what it takes to be a musician. I detest these so-called connoisseurs of opera who believe that singing an aria is as easy as opening one's mouth."

Christine chuckled to herself at that. "If only it was! Well, you needn't worry. I told him that I wouldn't miss my lesson for anything."

"Good…. Now how about if we skip your lesson for tonight?"

With another laugh, she drew back to meet his eye, demanding playfully. "What is it that you are proposing, my esteemed _teacher_?"

He mimicked her playful expression. "I _am_ the teacher, as you so well have reminded us. And I may make that decision if it is called for."

"Oh? And it is not only because you want me all to yourself in a more intimate situation, _Maestro_?"

"Do you refuse then?" he inquired back, tracing one of his cold fingers down the side of her bare throat and across the neckline of her gown.

She shivered. "Oh no,…. It would be rude of me to refuse my teacher anything."

"I concur with that!"

"Well, if we are not to have a lesson, what do you suggest we do?" A very foreign tremor racked her body. She wasn't sure how she wanted him to answer that, remembering their earlier encounter backstage and the unspoken promises of intimacies yet to be shared.

Erik pondered her question for a moment before posing one of his own instead. "What do young courting couples usually do together when they are allowed to go out?"

Christine shrugged thoughtfully. "At this time of the year, they'd likely do something festive: maybe go ice-skating…or on a sleigh ride."

The one brow she could see beyond the mask slowly raised. "And would you have done such things with the Vicomte?"

"I'm not courting the Vicomte," she reminded him matter of factly.

"No, I know that, but if you were, would he take you to do such things?"

"I suppose so," she answered, her forehead marred with her arising confusion. "But, Erik, I don't expect you to do those things with me. They are unimportant."

"Normal courting couples do them."

"We are not exactly a normal courting couple."

Erik knew that she did not mean her words to be offensive, but they still pricked his skin. "Then we'll pretend to be."

"Erik, that's ridiculous!" she exclaimed, shaking her head.

"Ridiculous!" he suddenly shouted and drew back, his eyes flashing fire. "You little hypocrite! In one moment, you want to act as though I am a normal man, and in the next, you remind me that I am not!"

Christine heaved an annoyed breath and wearily rubbed at her suddenly aching temples, hardly feeling inclined to indulge an argument. "Erik, stop this! You know that is not what I meant. I know that _you_ yourself do not like such social activities in the world outside, and I understand and accept that without regret."

Yes, but for how long? his mind questioned and taunted. How long before she began to resent him for hiding her away in darkness and denying all the sorts of things that young ladies enjoyed, social pleasures, the worldly things she was now accustomed to? The very idea of her coming to hate him pierced his heart, especially when he considered all that the Vicomte had to offer her instead.

"Erik?" Christine called gently, regarding his introspective expression.

He stared at her blankly before daring to insist, "Go and rest, Christine. You've had a long day and deserve to have the evening free."

"What?"

Erik nearly lunged at her with angry eyes. "Go home, or go and find the Vicomte and be with him! I don't much care what you do!"

Crossing her arms over her chest, she felt her own anger flare. The stubbornness of this man! But she was much too tired to continue to argue with him after the day's events.

"Fine," she replied instead, clenching her jaw with frustration.

He spun about and began to stalk off into the passageways, but before he was out of earshot, he yelled back, "But do not forget that tomorrow night you are coming home with me. You asked to stay, and therefore you are _mine _over the holiday."

Christine cringed at his biting tone, but with a little sigh, she simply opened the mirror doorway and left him to brood without a reply, knowing that she would willingly go with him tomorrow in spite of him and his temper. Damn her weakness! She couldn't help it…. She loved him….


	8. Chapter 8

Merry Christmas, to all of my adored readers! You will never know how grateful I am to every single person who takes the time to read and enjoy my stories. I hope that you all have a wonderful holiday full of happiness and love, and as a gift to you, I have 3 more chapters. Hopefully, these will make your holiday even brighter yet! Thank you all so much!

* * *

Reyer ended rehearsal early the next night as a special holiday treat with an excessive amount of threats lest anyone be late or out of practice when they returned. Carlotta had reclaimed her role, and having heard of Christine's success the previous day, the diva had made it a point to make Christine miserable all rehearsal long, ordering her around as if she was her own personal maid. By the time the cast was finished, Christine was one more command away from strangling Carlotta with her bare hands. With a muttered curse under her breath that was anything but ladylike, she slipped into her dressing room, and it was only then with a reluctant sigh that she remembered that she and Erik had not parted on the best of terms the night before. Dear Lord, if he was going to be surly to her once again tonight, she was liable to snap!

As she turned to her mirror, her eye was caught by a note left on her dressing table. Curiously, she approached, immediately recognizing the elegant scrawl upon it as Erik's. _'I am awaiting you downstairs'_. That was all. No endearments or even a signature. Nothing sweet, nothing even kind.

With a slight pout, she wearily drew on her cloak and snuck through the mirror into the catacombs, finding a lamp lit and awaiting her journey. She knew the meandering path through the labyrinthine passageways so well from her frequent trips, and perhaps such knowledge stole any fear of silhouetted shadows or wandering alone because it seemed a simple feat to find herself at his door. Without even pausing to knock, she walked inside, abandoning her lamp when she was met with the glow of a welcoming fire in the hearth.

"Erik?" she called tentatively, unsure what mood she would find him in.

"In here."

She followed the sound of his voice past the lit living room, where she hastily tossed her cloak onto the arm of the couch as if she were home, and onward to the dining room. The instant she crossed the threshold, she paused and gaped.

The table was set with a lavish meal, its fragrant aromas meeting her hungry stomach. The candelabra in the center of the table was lit, and its flames matched those of a dozen other candles flickering on the table and across the fine buffet, bathing the room in warm hues of softness. Between the candles and anywhere else where empty space could exist were scattered rose petals and vases filled to the brim with large, red roses. And in the middle of it all, standing behind his seat at the head of the table, was Erik, watching her carefully, judging her every reaction while he gave nothing away.

"This is beautiful," she breathed, meeting his gaze and smiling graciously. "Erik, I-"

"No, wait," he instructed, holding up a hand that she noticed was shaking in its resolve. "I must apologize to you for how I behaved last night."

"You were forgiven the moment I walked in the room. How could I be angry when you have gone to such trouble? This…all of this is…."

"I know that it is not a fine meal in a fancy restaurant, the likes of which you could enjoy with the Vicomte."

Shaking her head, she insisted unarguably, "I much prefer being here right now with you than in the finest restaurant in all the world with the Vicomte or anyone else for that matter."

Gazing at her with tenderness in his eyes, he motioned to her seat. "Well then, won't you join me?"

Christine immediately walked to her chair, pausing as Erik held it out for her to sit. As he returned to take his own seat, never once looking away from her to his utter surprise, she suddenly began to laugh.

"And what, may I ask, is so funny?" he posed lightly.

Lessening the extent of another course of giggles, she managed to reply, "I was so worried that you were still angry with me. I never could have expected anything like this."

Mirroring her smile, he poured them both a glass of wine and lifted his fork. It had been days since they had last eaten together, and he had nearly forgotten just how inconvenient it was to eat with the mask as a hindering obtrusion. But he was determined to make the best of it, taking small, awkward bites and slanted sips from his glass. Nothing was going to prevent him from sharing this moment with her.

Christine was so preoccupied that at first, she did not notice his discomfort. Glancing up at him with the intention of telling him of her horrific day as Carlotta's whipping post, she halted, the words dying on her lips when she caught sight of his clumsy attempt to capture a bite of his food and chew. Her poor angel! But memories played in her head of the last time she had dared to draw attention to his situation and made her hesitate. The last thing she wanted was to ignite his temper, especially this night. Taking a small bite from her fork, she cast another furtive glance in time to see him drop a bite of chicken back to his plate during another one of his failed attempts, and that made her decision for her.

Pondering her words for a long moment with careful consideration, she finally asked, "Erik, …do you trust me…even a little bit?"

Erik raised suspicious eyes to her, surprised by such a question. "Yes, of course I trust you, Christine."

"And do you believe that I have no intention to lie to you or to hurt you? And that I genuinely want to be here with you?"

He hesitated, considering silently before answering. "Yes, to your questions…. Sometimes, I doubt…, but you've been quite adamant in reassuring me."

"Exactly, …and do you remember that I promised that I would never tear your mask away again?"

"Yes," he dubiously replied, beginning to grow impatient. "What is it that you're getting at, Christine?"

"I am trying to ask you to take off your mask." She said the words simply, and yet all the while prepared herself for the lashing retaliation of his temper. "I'm not going to do it myself; I promised I wouldn't."

"My…mask?" One of his hands had darted up to cup the protective piece of material as if she would indeed yank it off despite her vow while his gaze had lowered to his forgotten plate, unable to meet hers. "I…I can't. Don't you understand that? If you saw it again…, if it was there before you…. I can't lose you, not now, and if…if it doesn't stay hidden, then you'll remember how awful it really is…, and you'll leave me…. No, no, Christine, I can't allow that."

Slowly, she rose from her seat and apprehensively approached, noting with a sharp pain to her heart, how he immediately shrank back against his chair at her nearness, clutching at his mask with frantic desperation. Brow lining with compassionate pain, she slid to her knees on the floor before him, not daring to do any more than set her palms lightly atop his knee.

"Erik," she timidly began, but he still would not look at her. "I'm not going to leave you. I know already what's beneath the mask; I've seen it, and I've never forgotten. But it's just a face, Erik; it's not you. It's scarred, and it's disfigured, but _you_ are not. You are my angel."

"A fallen angel," he corrected her coldly. "A hideously deformed angel. What are you hoping for, Christine? That I will believe you and take off the mask and we will go on eating our meal while the candlelight glints off my twisted, mangled flesh and the two holes I have for a nose? That you will lift your glass and smile across the table at a decaying corpse? Maybe even press a kiss to its bloated mouth?"

"Yes!" she exclaimed passionately, grabbing his free hand in both of hers. "Precisely that! I want to see it, Erik! I want to see your face and your deformity! And I want to show you that it doesn't matter to me!" Lifting herself up on her knees, she hesitantly destroyed his trust in a broken vow. "I know I promised not to steal your mask away, but I will do it anyway if I must to prove myself to you."

With the expected look of utter betrayal in his mismatched eyes, he lowered the hand that still clasped the mask and gave her access to it, snapping, "Do it then! Strip away my mask! Strip away my dignity, and crush my heart in your hands! Stupid woman! You don't know what you do!"

"Don't I?" she demanded back, but despite her bold courage, they both saw her hands tremble as she raised them to the fastenings of his mask.

Erik looked away then; he wouldn't watch this and see her eyes as she regarded his scars. He knew that she was telling the truth and that _she believed_ that she could look upon his face without disgust, but even though she held such faith in herself, he didn't. She was in over her head, and though she might _try_ to appear unaffected, he would know. He would be able to read her true emotions, and it would kill him.

Christine took a deep, steadying breath and unfastened the clasp, letting the mask drop limply into her hands as she guided it away from his face. She didn't look right away, pausing for a long moment before finally, lifting her gaze to that scarred face in the warm, deceptively comforting glow of candlelight.

It was just as she remembered it to be, and yet more real, more tangible this time. He was right when he called it 'the face of Death'. The skin, whatever of it there was, was so tangled and so twisted, pulled taut and nearly transparent over the stark, white bone of his cheek, sinking into a hollow cavern where it joined his jaw. A green eye, so brilliantly emerald in its orb, was sunk deeply into the socket, the lines of it profound and prominent like a cut-out shell. He had no nose, only two holes where breath passed in and out, though his concealing mask formed the natural shape as if one was there beneath it, all a sad illusion and a worthless hope for that small design of bone and cartilage that normal people took for granted. His upper lip, as she had glimpsed when he had shifted the mask to kiss her, was swollen and misshapen, curving upward in an unnatural arc, …those lips she had kissed. And he still wouldn't look at her; she knew why.

Erik could feel the humiliation rising at the back of his throat, his memory taunting him with the image of her expression the last time they had acted this scene, …her face, …her eyes, …the revulsion. Extending one hand to her, having not even dared a single glance, he demanded in a tight voice, "My mask."

He heard her rustling movements and thought she was conceding, expecting to feel the cold material pressed into his hand, and in spite of himself and the anger he wanted to feel, tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. …But then he felt the strangest sensation. Gentle at first and then a bit bolder, he felt soft kisses being rained on his disfigured cheekbone and then the sallow layer of skin that connected to his jaw.

A gasp that was a mixture of shock and a smothered sob erupted from the depths of his being as he lifted his eyes to her, tears coursing unheeded down his face. And she only smiled, only a tender smile devoid of pity, of sympathy, …of disgust. She pressed the cold mask in his hand, but only to free her own, so that she could trail her fingertips over his scars, brushing away tears that were unceasing and unstoppable.

Leaning close again, she kissed the corner of his emerald eye, tasting the salt of his tears, and hesitant yet lest she upset him, she dared to press a gentle kiss to the open spot of transparent flesh just above the two gaping holes of his nose, feeling his unsteady breath tickle her chin on its erratic exhalation. Her kisses moved onward to the swollen curve of his upper lip before finally meeting his mouth with a hungry fervency.

The mask fell to the carpeted floor unnoticed as Erik drew Christine up onto his lap, never once taking his lips from hers. This kiss was necessary, a necessity of the soul, his tattered flesh and scars buzzing and tingling with their first sensation of touch. They were sensitive, and although they usually caused him dull aches of pain, now they were delighting in the delicate pressure Christine's kisses had given, begging for more.

Christine felt his tears striking her cheeks, wetting her face, and yet she only continued to meet his every urgent kiss with equaled desire. She could not help but be pleased with her own bravery. She would not lie; his face was grotesque and distorted, and as she had gazed on it moments ago, she had questioned her resolve. But then she had sternly reprimanded herself. This was Erik! And it had been that realization alone that had made up her mind and her heart. And his face did not matter!

"Christine, Christine," Erik breathed as he pulled his lips away, pressing his forehead to hers. "_Ma petite_, _ma belle_, _mon amour_, I would die for you, kill for you, give you my very soul. Please, dear God, let this not be a dream!"

"It is _not_ a dream," she assured with a half-smile curving her lips, brushing away an unending stream of tears with her fingertips as she traced his scars with a strange sense of fascination. Her forehead was still against his, her lips mere inches away so that they shared the same breath, and her hands were testing the oddities of his skin, one cupping the flawless side and the other caressing his deformity.

Erik's body ached and raged with desire, his scars tingling and singing from her touches. He never could have imagined even in the most ridiculous of his fantasies that his skull's head would be so close to hers that he would ever feel her breath play on his features, that her hands would ever touch him with such an incredible tenderness and a morbid, yet desirous curiosity. He had that rising perverse urge again to press his disfigured cheek to hers, and he wondered how she would react to such an unacceptable, vile transgression.

"Christine?" he suddenly heard himself asking before he could think better of it.

"Yes, Erik?"

"May I…? May I…?" The words for such an act would not come.

"What? Tell me, _ange_."

"I want to…. I need to…." Erik closed his eyes and only then could he speak to her when the rejection and disgust he thought would come were out of his view. "May I feel your cheek against mine?"

His request was so soft, so unsure, and captivated by the very idea, she did not hesitate as she acquiesced, very gently turning her face to meet his deformity with her smooth, warm cheek. A shudder racked him immediately from the top of his head to his toes, and a breathless "oh" escaped his lips.

Christine was intrigued. She could feel the hard, smooth bone of his cheek much like her own only a bit more pronounced and not made soft with a layer of flesh as hers was. The rest of his cheek was like a gaping hole, the skin there so thin and pliable in texture that she almost feared pushing too hard against it. But other than those things, it felt so nearly normal, wet and streaked with tears, and if she had not already known what a horror it could be to the eye, she would not think it a great oddity at all.

A smile lightly curved the corners of her lips as she was reminded of their compromising position. The unfamiliarity and strange newness of his face was beginning to wear off, reminding her abruptly and bluntly that more than disfigured teacher, more than angel, Erik was first a man. The planes of his body were hard and warm beneath hers, and she shifted ever so slightly so that her chest was pressed flush to his, wondering if he noticed, if he was desiring more, desiring her…. Gently, she nuzzled her smooth cheek against his marred one, trying to remind him of her softness and her nearness, her skin growing flushed with her own boldness.

Erik did not need to be enticed when he was already yearning. His desire only blazed brighter by her cleverly innocent gestures. He had to wonder in an unconfident mind if she was acting purposely or if she was truly ignorant to the effect she was having. But as she drew back enough to meet his eye, he knew.

"Vixen," he teased although his gaze was not at all playful, allowing her to see the true extent of the flames of his need.

And yet despite her passion, she was hesitant. What did this all mean now? The mask had stood in their way for so long. Now that it was gone, what would happen between them? Did he anticipate that she would now willingly come to his bed?… Would she?...

Trembling all over, she suddenly lifted herself from his lap in one graceful motion while he stared at her with an uncertainty that she could decipher vividly without the hindrance of the mask.

"Christine, what is it?" he asked, fisting his hands so as not to make an attempt to reach for her again. "Have I done something to upset you?"

"N…no," she replied, backing up until fingers reaching behind her found the solidity of her chair. "I just…I thought that now we could enjoy our meal together. Now that we have discarded your mask, I think we shall appreciate the food all the more so." She cursed how foolish she sounded, but she quickly took her seat again and turned to her half-eaten plate beneath her full mind.

Erik had to wonder what in the world she was thinking about. But when his insecure mind proposed that it must be the horror of his face, she looked over at him and smiled, a genuine smile that held no fear or disgust in its corners. It shocked him to his core that she could be so at ease with his deformity exposed; no one he had ever encountered had been able to endure his appearance without the mask, staring openly or avoiding a look altogether. But Christine acted like it was entirely ordinary, glancing up casually and regarding him as she would anyone else. And fully delighting in that role, he lifted his fork and began to eat normally and comfortably without the mask to impede him.

It was strange to her at first, and she had to hide her eyes and furtive glances so that he would not catch her watching him. She was _not_ disgusted as she knew he would assume if he caught her staring, but she was astounded and intrigued. It was odd to see that sunken side of his face extended with food as he chewed and his jawbone so evidently defined beneath that thin flesh, stretching the skin as it moved. Odd but not disgusting. After only a few moments, when the novelty wore off, she went back to her own plate, and it was no longer so intriguing. That was how it felt with his face as well. Yes, at first glance, it was abnormal and maybe a bit grotesque, but the more one was exposed to it, the more tolerated it became to the eye.

Lifting her gaze to purposely meet his, she ordered with a smile, "Now I expect that you will no longer wear that mask around me. I won't allow it."

He hesitated despite her adamancy. "Are you sure, Christine? If you would rather I continued to wear it, I would not take offense. You have already proven yourself a dozen times over."

"Have you only ever taken it off when you were alone?…" Her voice grew soft with sudden realization. "Has no one ever truly looked upon your face before?"

"Only ever in horror as the face of a monster. You are the first…, the _only_ person ever to eat with me, have a conversation with me, …touch me without the mask." Usually recalling such things made a bitter resentment gnaw at his insides, but speaking of it now to Christine, he felt strangely calm and detached. If that was her effect on him: to wipe away the hurts of his life, then he never wanted to be out of her presence again.

Urged on by his openness and willingness to talk, she leaned forward with her elbows on the table and sympathetically dared to ask, "But what about your mother? I know you have spoken harshly of her to me before, but she couldn't have forced you to always cover your face."

Erik shook his head. "She did just that. From the moment I was big enough to stop squirming and detaching the mask, she made me wear it in her presence always…. Before that, when I was only a baby, she had a nurse to care for me because she could not tolerate my presence. My earliest memories are of her forcing me away, shunning me at my every attempt…." He lifted his wine glass in his hand, watching the way the candlelight glinted off of the deep red liquid bemusedly before he took a long drink.

Silently watching him, Christine was both fascinated and horrified by his story. It felt like some tragic fairy tale that took every terrible twist of fate until it found its happy ending…. Only with this one, she wasn't so sure there was a happy ending.

"That is so sad," she whispered more to herself, fighting away an unusual rising of tears.

Erik shrugged apathetically and returned to swirling the liquid in his glass distractedly as he went on. "So I wore the mask and persevered over her cruelty until I was old enough to leave…. I was nine when I ran away."

"Nine? You were only a child!"

"No," he replied, still not looking at her. "No, I had grown up long before that even…."

"Where did you go?" Christine probed further after a few silent moments passed between them.

Glancing up at her, he paused, the words failing in his throat. He had almost forgotten what he was saying. Never had he shared his story with another human being; no one had ever cared enough to know. And yet, even though she was so eager to learn, his past still hung like a dark cloud over him, and he was almost ashamed to tell her.

Sensing his sudden lack of conviction, she reached across the table and found his hand with hers, entwining their fingers together. She didn't need to say anything; he felt the strength in her as his renewed courage, and he continued in a soft voice.

"I was…captured by Gypsies." He gave a weak, unconvincing laugh. "You think me to be paranoid with all of my alarms and traps and my skill for sneaking up on people. Well, it all stems from a desire never to be snuck up on again myself. I was yet young and naïve and still learning the art of escape and keeping unnoticed in the shadows. I was stealing bread from a Gypsy camp and thought my presence was undetected, but I was caught. They taunted me and scolded me, and when they noticed my mask and how I kept trying to clutch it to my face, they took it away…. When they saw, …they were horrified…." Visions flashed in his head of those dark, dirty faces and their revolted expressions, still so fresh even though it was so long ago. "They locked me in a cage and put me on display in a traveling freak show. 'Come and see the devil's child, the true spawn of Satan with the face of death'…. We traveled from town to town, and I was beat and whipped into submission, so that I would stay quiet and make a good display for the tourists. For months, it went on, and I was kept in a cage since they knew I would otherwise escape. And I was left on show and ashamed and embarrassed by my face and the way the people looked and laughed at me…. It was…degrading and humiliating, and I knew I had to find a way out."

Tears were unwittingly trailing down Christine's cheeks as she listened, her other hand coming to clasp his as well. He wouldn't look at her, and she could feel his shame as vibrant as if this story had only just taken place.

"I…I escaped," he went on, his gaze unfocused on anything but the memories playing out in his head. "I learned the internal workings of the lock on my cage little by little until I knew I could take it apart…. I was always a peculiarly inquisitive and intelligent child. So I made my escape, and I fled the Gypsies, the town, the entire country. I was so afraid of being captured and caged again. I ended up in Italy. That's where I grew into a man."

"What did you do there?"

Erik glanced at her, his attention drawn to her and the warmth of her hands cocooning his cold one, and he answered her with the faintest smile, "I was an apprentice to an architect. That was one of the few, albeit brief, pleasant times in my life. He was an old man, and he didn't care about my face or my mask. He saw my talent, and he took me in and trained me. And I made plans for buildings in Italy that still stand to this day."

There was a bit of pride in him at that, and Christine found herself smiling as well. "I should like to see your buildings, Erik."

He brought his delighted expression to her. "You are standing in one right now!" he exclaimed. "Did you not know that I designed the operahouse?"

"No," she breathed in awe. "You…you designed this?"

Erik made a face of annoyance, which she watched with fascination, creasing his tattered face so much more expressively and deeply than she was used to seeing. "I drew the plans and handed them over to Charles Garnier, whose name is credited for the design."

"But why? _You_ should be credited!"

Shaking his head, he replied, "Garnier was a friend of mind, one of the few I've ever had. I gave him the plans so long as he let me supervise the building. That was how I had the cellars laid for me to eventually build my passages and my home. You see, I believed that I would die here. I had every intention of burying myself away in these catacombs and never coming out again."

"But you changed your mind," she insisted with a grin.

Erik gazed at her with unfathomable tenderness in his beautiful eyes, a tenderness that she could now see play over all of his features, making his disfigurement not nearly as shocking or unpleasant. How could it be anything but beautiful when he looked at her that way? "I heard the voice of an angel."

After a moment's pause, she suddenly giggled. "Oh! You mean me!"

"Yes, you, you silly girl! You and your beautiful voice called me out of the pits of hell and brought me back to life."

Christine's jovial mood was so easy to indulge and so preferred to keep, but with a reluctant sigh, she let it fade with her smile and grew solemn, pushing, "But there's more to your story that you haven't said. You've mentioned being at the shah's courts in Persia."

His expression darkened immediately, and he stammered, "That is not…not a suitable story to be told."

"Why?"

"Please, Christine. It isn't a story for you." His words were sharp and biting, and abruptly, he drew away, grabbing his mask from the floor as he rose. Without a look or explanation, he stalked out of the room and left her alone in the warm candlelight to stare after him in bewilderment.

Oh no, she would not let it end that way, a subject never to be broached again. Let him be angry with her! She was determined to know everything, no matter how dark and terrible it was! She would give him a moment of calm while she reconsidered her approach, but she was unwaveringly determined not to be thwarted in her course.

Rising slowly, she went to work, clearing the table as she had done when she had last stayed with Erik. She found that she enjoyed the work as menial and mundane as it was; it made her feel like she belonged here with him. As she brought the last of the dishes to the kitchen, she blew out the candles that had been so carefully arranged on the table one by one until the room was dark.

It took her a few long minutes to wash and put away the dishes, and they only dragged by all the more so with her rising impatience to return to Erik. Finally, as the last one was in its place, she tossed her towel on the countertop and crept to the living room doorway, peering in.

Christine made not a sound, the picture she was granted reason enough for her to be a silent observer. Erik was sitting in his chair before the lit fireplace. He was crying, no sobbing, the back of his hand clasped firmly against his mouth so that the sounds were muffled and indiscernible to her in the kitchen. Her heart lurched in her chest as she looked upon the scene. She could see his tears on one cheek, the mask back in place and hiding the other one, tears as his regrets.

Erik sensed a presence, her presence; she could decipher his instinctual alertness, but before he had the chance to glimpse her, she withdrew back into the shadows of the kitchen doorway.

"Christine?" Erik called, mimicking a strong, unshaken tone as though he had not been crying at all.

"One moment, Erik," she called back, lingering to complete the illusion that she had not been spying. Peeking into the living room again, she caught him hastily shifting the mask long enough to wipe both of his eyes on his sleeve, and then hurriedly, he replaced it with perfect precision, straightening his posture and clearing his throat of any remaining emotion.

Hesitating a minute longer, she slowly entered the living room, brightly proclaiming, "The kitchen is clean."

"You needn't have done that," he replied, solemn as his mood of choice. "I would have seen to it later."

"Nonsense! I am repaying your hospitality and your wonderful meal with what little I can do." Eyeing him all the while out of her peripheral vision, she strolled to the fireplace and idly held up her hands to the heat radiating from the flames. She had a well-considered, ulterior motive in mind as she commented, "I love being here with you, …staying with you."

Watching her intently, he replied, "My home and everything in it is yours; you know that. You may stay as long as you like."

"And you?" she softly asked, turning her gaze to him while keeping hands extended out before the flames. "Are you mine as well?"

"You know I am," he answered, still studying her. "I always have been, and I will continue to be for as long as you want me."

Matching his unbroken solemnity, she tentatively approached his chair and slowly reached out to touch her warm fingertips to the cold material of his mask, noting with a sense of disappointment how his first instinct was still to recoil from her touch before he forcefully stilled himself in his place. "You put your mask back on…. Why?"

"Habit, I suppose; I am not very accustomed to being without it."

Christine shook her head sadly and corrected him, "No, …you are hiding behind it."

Her accusation made his temper flare as he immediately snapped back, "I do _not_ hide behind anything. I know what I am…and what I've done."

She only shook her head again, and very cautiously, she lowered herself to sit lightly on his lap, her eyes locked on his. "You're hiding behind it from me."

"You?"

With timid movements to silently assure him of her purpose, she reached once again for the fastening of his mask and unattached it, drawing it away. That skeleton's face stared back at her so near to her own, and with a deliberately gentle touch, the palm of her hand fitted over the scars and cupped his marred cheek in its curve. "Does it hurt when I touch you?"

Holding her gaze so near to his own, he replied, "Not when you touch me like that."

"But your face does cause you pain?"

"At times, it aches. I don't usually touch it often. It's an entirely new feeling to have your skin, your touch against it, …not painful, …rather tingling, sensitive, …pleasurable."

She moved the hand she had against his cheek so that she could trail her fingertips lightly over the taut flesh from his cheekbone to his jaw. "And what does it feel like when I do that?" She already could see the darkening of his eyes and knew the answer to her own question.

"Not painful," he answered after a moment, his body beginning to tighten and ache again.

Determined not to be deterred from her real purpose, she abruptly lowered her hand to her lap and insisted, "I don't want to upset you, and I don't want to fight with you."

He was shaking his head, already guessing her unuttered intention. "No, Christine, no, I will _not_ speak of it to you."

"Why not?" she demanded, matching his tone. "You've already told me everything else."

"Yes, but what you ask is too awful, …too heinous to be told. Do you think I can bear to have you know the truth of the crimes on my soul? To have you know the horror of it?"

"There is nothing you could tell me that would change the way I feel about you. I know your soul, Erik, and your heart. Let me know your past as well. Help me understand the things you've done and why. …Let me know all of you, Erik."

Tears were crowding his eyes again, tears he didn't want and didn't even deserve to be allowed to cry. "Christine, you don't know what you ask. You don't know the sorts of things I've done, unspeakable, unforgivable things."

"Everything is forgivable," she protested adamantly. "Isn't that what we are taught? That with sincerity and redemption, we will all be forgiven our trespasses."

"I am beyond saving, _ange_," he replied with a bitter laugh. "I have already been condemned to an eternity of hellfire and damnation. I was marked for it before I was even born."

"Your face does _not_ mark you as a demon or a monster or whatever else you are thinking!" Christine was nearly yelling the words at him, adamant and determined in her conviction as she declared firmly, "If anything at all, your face marks you as mine! You were branded as _mine_ before you were even born."

He gave her a bittersweet smile at that. "If that is true, then I think you are cursed rather than blessed that I am yours."

"Ridiculous man! You say that no one has ever been able to look past your face, but I do. Doesn't that tell you something?" Christine demanded resolutely. "And besides that, I really think it is _my_ decision if you are a curse or a blessing to me, not yours. And if you cannot see how blessed I feel I am with you in my life, then you don't know me at all!"

"All right!" he conceded. "I am yours, and how fortunate you are that I will always be yours!"

"Erik," she continued solemnly after a breath, "you cannot run away from your past forever. Whether you admit it or not, you will always carry its scars. …Please, _mon ange_, tell me, and we will face your demons together."

Meditating to himself, he finally, reluctantly yielded with a solitary nod of concession. "All right, Christine, you win, but be forewarned: this is no fairy tale; this is a nightmare, one that I would be only too pleased to forget and never acknowledge again. But since you are so adamant to know, I can only hope that the truth will sufficiently satisfy your inquisitive mind."

"I'm sure it will," she agreed softly, and then she waited until he was ready to begin, not pushing, only watching him with steady eyes.

At last, he started to speak, "After the years I spent learning architecture in Italy, I was determined to learn more. My mind can be like a bottomless cavern when it comes to knowledge. Ever since childhood, I've wanted to know everything, learn everything there was to learn. That was how I felt about architecture. I knew there was so much out there beyond the coasts of Italy, and I had to find it. I chose to go to Persia because I had read books on the structural differences of their buildings, their foreign, innovative, and yet primitive methods of construction. I had to see it! I had to learn! So I traveled halfway across the world to Persia, and I received a very eye-opening education."

He paused, and as if needing to reassure himself of her presence, he caught one of her hands in his before he dared to continue. "Persia is not the most stable of countries. There is one leader, the shah, and most of the people follow his rule without question. But there are small groups of insurgents, rebels, who refuse to live under the shah and make it their task to seek a rebellion. The shah is not a patient man or a just one; I pray that you _never_ need meet him. He has his troops hunting out the insurgents, which does not seem a terrible thing, but if a person is even suspected of a traitorous thought, man, woman, even child, the shah has them taken from their homes and executed. When I came to Persia, I was immediately suspected of treason and siding with the rebellion. If the mask and my obvious European descent were not enough to incite suspicion, then my inquisitiveness in learning the structures of some of their oldest and most sacred buildings truly made me look a rebel, a European supporting and helping fund the rebel cause. At the time, I did not know any of this; if anything, in my eyes, I seemed a typical tourist. It wasn't until I was dragged into the custody of the shah's guard that I learned any of it."

"You were arrested?" Christine asked, absolutely riveted to his tale like he was a storyteller weaving its nuances around her.

Erik nodded. "Arrested and dragged before the shah to plead my case. The shah is a very mistrustful sort of man, who chooses always to believe the worst. I would have been put to death! But then he saw my mask and insisted that I was being rude not to remove it. That was his kind way of putting it before he had his guards yank it off despite my begging for it to be left alone. I would rather have faced my death sentence immediately than reveal my face to anyone. But they stole the mask away, and they saw my face, …and I daresay, it saved my life."

"Why?" Christine eagerly probed when he paused only to take a breath.

"Same story as it has been my whole life," he answered with a sense of sadness. "They believed it a mark of the gods. Since their gods can also be their devils, I wouldn't call that an improvement to my title. But I was spared because the superstitious shah thought to kill me would anger one of his gods. From that day on, I was waited on in the shah's courts as an advocate to the gods. I was housed in the royal guest chambers, given the richest of foods and finest of clothing, and I was never again stripped of my mask. _No one_, royal or not, was allowed to touch it."

Christine could sense that this was where the story all went horribly wrong, and lovingly, she stroked his palm in hers, not saying a word to interrupt.

"You know, in the beginning, I may have respected, …even liked the shah," he told her somberly. "I understood his cause, understood that he only wanted what was best for the country, stability, one government, peace. We spoke of many things, and when he learned that I was an architect, he aided me and had every book written in the country on architecture brought to me so I could study. He had his own builders brought to me and asked me to design a new temple for him. I guess that was my test, a test of my abilities. I had it constructed, and its design had influences of both my Italian and Persian training. It was a lovely building; I often wish I could see it again. It was the only good thing to come from my stay in Persia.

"After that, the shah came to me and asked me…to build him a torture chamber. It wasn't an obscene request, not when he explained and justified it with stories of violent insurgents who were torturing innocent people. He wanted to punish these rebels in a painful and deadly way for their crimes…. I agreed to his request…, and I built the first chamber."

"The first?" she repeated, meeting his gaze with questioning eyes.

Erik only gave a solemn nod, refusing to give a real answer as he continued on with his tale. "In terms of beauty, it was a masterpiece. I detailed the outside so intricately, even had a Persian sculptor carve designs into gold etching at the top. But its beauty was misleading because inside, it was all ugly. It had trap doors that released poisonous snakes upon its victim, snakes that were regularly starved and tortured so that they were only too eager to bite their prey. If that wasn't enough, then the chamber also held small knives that could be launched at the rebel inside, not large enough to kill, only to injure. The shah loved it. He would send victim after victim inside and sit in his throne, listening with delight at their screams of pain and terror. When he thought the victim had had enough, he had his guards drag him off to be hung. The shah loved the torture more than the killing, …and I was sucked into the game with him. I…I watched these poor men who had been arrested, watched them beg for mercy as they were locked in the chamber that _I _had created, and…I enjoyed it."

Christine listened intently, noticing how Erik would no longer look at her, only occasionally glancing down at their joined hands as if for confidence to resume.

"That first chamber only kept the shah entertained briefly. Within a few weeks, he was at my door, asking for another. This one, he wanted to be more innovative and more heinous. He didn't give me details; he never gave me details, only left me to come up with it on my own. It was as if he could see the darkness within me, a darkness that equaled his own." He said such a revelation with disgust and shame, shaking his head. "He must have been right. The second chamber I made for him was brilliant. I used properties of physics and chemistry to make it shoot fire inside, spouts of fire to burn its victim, …burn the flesh from his body. The shah was even more pleased. He brought in all of his court to watch each rebel as they were thrown in, to listen to the soft hiss of the gas and the whoosh of the flames and then the horrified screams, and then to smell the burning flesh as the door was opened and the barely living, blackened body was carried out. It was entertainment for the entire court, for the shah, …for me….

"As with the last one, the shah grew tired of the fire chamber as well and requested something new. This went on and on, and I designed chamber after chamber, each one growing in its perversion and heinousness until the victims were no longer coming out alive. They were dying in the chambers, dying by my devices, and I didn't care! I was a willing observer to the acts, an eager creator. I stood there with half of the kingdom as the shah made these brutal murders a source of public entertainment held in great arenas. And in the back of my mind, I knew that these poor men, and now even women, going to their deaths by our hands were not all rebels, that they were being unjustly accused if only for the sport and pleasure of the shah. And I did nothing to stop it! I only went on creating new devices of pain, new methods of death, and then I watched them all die, one after another with a sense of satisfied pleasure." There were no tears of consolation or a need for forgiveness in his eyes; there was only a look of sheer horror as he relived each death in his memory as if they were occurring then and there.

"I lost count of how many chambers I built. It went on for months, months of daily public murders. I grew to know exactly how much a victim in the chamber could take, how many burns before they would die, how many stabbing wounds, the exact amount of pressure to snap a bone, snap a neck…. They called me the Black Angel…. Funny, isn't it? I was the Devil's spawn and now the Black Angel. Perhaps that was why I was so intrigued with being the Angel of Music for you, …to be a heavenly being for once…." He looked at her then as he mentioned the Angel of Music, and he expected to see only disgusted horror on her face. But instead, she was only so raptly listening, as if reading a book that she knew could not be true but read anyway for the fictional value of it.

"Dear God, Christine," he passionately declared, "how can you listen to this? It is an abomination!"

"It is your life," she retorted simply. "So tell me how it came to be that you left Persia."

He sighed hesitantly but continued, "I was corrupt on the killing, drugged and intoxicated on it, but in spite of that, even I still bore limits. The shah was forever looking for a new way to give himself pleasure through the killing, and he finally went too far. He sentenced a child to die in my chamber, a little boy no older than I was when I ran away. And I stood in the arena and saw the boy learn his fate. I heard his mother screaming and sobbing, begging the shah to let her boy go. I knew that it was unjust, that the child had no part of a rebellion, but the boy only stood tall and brave and took the sentence better than grown men did. Only I noticed the way his hand trembled at his side so that he had to make a fist to keep it steady. And he went to his death, a child, …a little boy…, for no good reason except to please a perverted, corrupt ruler…. I left that day. I escaped the palace and got on a trader's boat that brought me back to Europe as if I had just been on a touring trip. And I buried the memories, the faces, the screams, and I had no intention of ever speaking of them to anyone…. Now do you see why I proclaim myself a monster? Do you think the same? I murdered hundreds without an inkling of compassion, without conscience or pity. I disgust myself!"

Erik stared at her, waiting for her to make a reply, waiting for a hurried rejection, a renewed disgust in her eyes. He immediately regretted telling her the tale as soon as the words had hit the air, and yet he knew just as she had said, that he couldn't run from his past forever. No matter how deep he had buried it, he knew that it still affected him, that it still tormented him, that it had changed him so profoundly into the man he was today. And that only proved to him that he had had to tell her no matter the consequences for him now.

Christine met his eye after processing his story, her mind still full of the images he had produced, pictures of unknown faces, of an exotic, far-off land that she was fortunate she would never know. The Erik in his story was hard and cold, inhumane and untouchable. But this Erik before her was real and warm, with eyes that did not seek forgiveness for his soul, that only sought some sort of acceptance, not even understanding or pity, only acceptance.

"Christine," he breathed despondently, unable to stay silent when her eyes were on his. "I told you that I was a monster; you didn't want to believe it, but I now fear you do. Say something, Christine! Scream at me! Scold me! Call me every unthinkable, unimaginable profanity that I deserve! Only please, _please_ don't leave me! Hate me even, if you must! But I beg of you, don't leave!"

Her brow was furrowed so deeply that he was unsure if she was pitying him or rebuffing him. And then as he continued to urgently watch her, she disentangled her hand from his and reached up to gently cup his disfigurement once again.

"Christine, please," he whispered, tears forming. His hand darted out to cover hers and clutch it to his cheek as if in doing so he could hold onto her and her heart as well. "Say something!"

Tears rapidly gathered in her own beautiful, blue eyes and fell free as she fervently revealed, "I love you! Lord help me, I do! And it doesn't matter to me what you've done! I know it should! But it doesn't!" The conflict within her was pouring out in her words, the turmoil over his revelation and what it meant, over the fact that she wanted to condemn him for such an immoral past, but her heart wouldn't obey. Bringing up her free hand to hold his other cheek as well, she repeated in a vehement whisper, her voice caught in her throat with a sob, "I love you! I love you! I love you!"

Erik was stunned and unable to form a coherent thought, let alone a sentence as she let out an uncontrollable sob, holding his face so tenderly in her hands. Though he bore no words, he brought his own hands to her face, imitating her pose as he brushed away her tears with his thumbs, his palms pressed so gently to her cheeks.

She loved him…. It was a revelation that would not coagulate in his reeling mind. How long had he yearned to hear those words from another human being, and how many times had he only ever known disappointment? Not even his own mother had loved him…. But Christine…. She loved him! It was the hardest thing he had ever had to believe.

"Christine," he breathed again, the one word he could make sense of, the one word that made it all real. "Christine."

She forced back her tears with a little hiccup in her throat and simply stared at that tortured face, knowing that with the divulging of her most secret feelings, she had bound herself to him forever. He would never let her go now, and dear Lord, how she adored the thought alone! Let him have her! Let him possess her! It was all that she had ever wanted! She wanted to be everything to Erik just as he already was to her.

Holding his eye, she delicately traced his scars again as she had done earlier. It felt only too familiar to be touching him this way as if she had always done so and not only for the first time tonight.

"You've known so much pain in your life," she was softly saying. "So much loneliness and darkness and all because of your face, …this face. But now I will only ever allow it to bring you happiness." Her lips had curved to a smile. "You deserve happiness, Erik."

"_You_ bring me happiness," he told her earnestly. "No one has ever touched me the way you are. No one has ever looked at me as if I was a normal man. Only you." His face grew dark. "I've never told anyone my story…, of all of the horrible crimes I've committed…. You know the truth, and yet you haven't run out of my life. My God, Christine, you are a miracle, a real angel."

"If it is because of those crimes and all of the pain that you've endured that you are here now with me, then I cannot judge and curse them, can I? Does that make me selfish?"

"Selfish? Never," he replied with a smile. He had never considered her perspective on his past, but when in those terms, he found that he himself could not fully denounce it either. Not if it all meant that in the end he would have her here in his home, loving him in spite of it all. For the first time in his life, his past was a strange sort of blessing to him.

Continuing to watch him intently, she suddenly asked, "So what does it mean? What happens now?"

"Now? Now, _ma belle enfant_, I send you off to bed. It is quite late, and I fear we've both had exhausting days." Erik knew that was not the answer she was seeking, but with the images of his past still so fresh in his reminiscent mind, he felt it unjust to speak of their future.

Christine only nodded solemnly in response and conceded, "All right, I will indulge you and go to bed, but do not forget, _ange_: tomorrow is Christmas Eve, and I will expect only smiles and laughter. No more seriousness for the holiday."

He nodded his consent to her commands. "Now go on."

With a tender grin, she pressed a quick kiss to his misshapen lips without a single hesitation and got to her feet. He immediately missed her weight on him, the delicious feel of her, the scent of her; those were things he knew he would never take for granted.

"Goodnight, _mon ange_," she bid sweetly, and with a shimmer in her eyes beaming of a woman in love, she scurried to her room. It was only when the door was closed and she was out of his presence that her smile faded. When finally sleep came to her, tucked warm and safe in her bed that night, she fell into vivid nightmares about snakes and fire and dozens of nameless, faceless people screaming in agony.

Out in the living room, Erik sat still in his chair before the dying fire, not giving enough thought to stir it back to life. His past was close tonight, the images as near to the surface as they had been in years. Foreign sounds were in his ears, foreign scents wafted his senses, and sins so black they could never be atoned for flashed like broken fragments of glass through his mind's eye.

Rising on shaky knees, he wandered to the kitchen. He could feel a definite chill hanging in the air, so distinct and penetrating to the very bone after the warmth Christine's touch had brought. He needed to forget, needed to find that warmth again, needed to wash the blood from his hands.

Trembling all over, he reached for a bottle of brandy. He rarely ever drank, but at the present, it would be a welcome indulgence. Pouring himself a very full glass, he swallowed it in one long sip, feeling the strangely searing sensation as it traveled down his throat to burn his stomach. Without a proper assessment of the consequences of such behavior, he immediately poured another glass and brought both glass and bottle with him to the living room and his vacant chair before the fire, praying with every bit of himself only to forget.


	9. Chapter 9

It was a few hours to dawn, and after finally finding sleep not long before, Erik awakened with a gasp from a soul-splitting nightmare. He jolted to awareness in his chair in the living room, taking shallow breaths to calm his racing heart.

He still could not catch his breath, the visions of his dream too fresh and consuming. His head throbbed and felt thick, and he knew that he was yet half-inebriated.

Dear God, what had he dreamt? He had been in the shah's courts of Persia in the great arena, watching convicted rebels being thrown into his torture chamber. One after another they had gone with shrieks of terror and pleadings for pity. Erik had been a silent observer of the scene, more concerned that his chamber was working properly than the faces of the victims until a familiar voice met his ear.

_"Have pity, majesty,"_ the voice from his dream had said, not terrified or afraid, only quiet and humble.

It had been only then that he had looked at the victim's face, and horror had arisen within him to choke away any protests he could have uttered. It had been Christine! His Christine! Dressed in the rag garments of the Persian peasants, she had knelt before the shah, her wrists and ankles shackled with thick, heavy chains.

The shah had only laughed at her plight. The grotesque, plump man had bent down to the kneeling Christine and had dared to caress her cheek while Erik, watching from the back of the audience, had shot fire at the man with his gaze alone, desperate to yell at him or rush at him but frozen in place, voiceless, helpless. The shah had given a nod to his guard, and the man had grabbed Christine's shackled wrists with brutal force and had dragged her to the chamber. She had not screamed, had not fought, only went like that boy Erik had remembered, stoic and brave. Just before the guard had thrown her inside, she had looked up into the audience and had met Erik's gaze. Her blue eyes had been so torturously sad, so inconsolable. And then she had spoken to him alone, and he had heard her clearly even above the roar of the eager audience.

_"You do this,"_ she had said, solemn and soft. _"You kill me."_ Then she had looked away from him as if he had been nothing but a stranger, and the guard had shoved her into the chamber and locked the door.

Erik had not known if she had screamed in agony because all he had heard were his own shouts of terror, his voice suddenly restored. And then with a whiff of the remembered scent of the burning flesh, he had awoken in his chair with a half-empty bottle of brandy beside him.

It had seemed so real; the Christine of his dream, her eyes, her voice, were playing and replaying in his mind, so clear, so vivid. Her hair had been loose around her shoulders, and her cheeks had been flushed with life. No matter what he did, how hard he tried, he could not shake the vision away.

He had to see her, to know that she was with him and safe, that she was not one the faceless hundreds who he had indifferently killed as good as if he had done it with his bare hands. Staggering to his feet very ungracefully beneath the lingering effects of the alcohol, he wearily made his way to her room. Attempting to be silent in his actions, he opened the door with a soft creak and crept inside and to her bedside.

She was asleep, her breathing deep and even, her dark lashes crescent-shaped on her cheeks as a long braid of unruly tresses was thrown across the pillows. Stirring a little, she muttered something unintelligible to a companion in her dream and shifted slightly, curling more securely beneath the blanket.

Smiling tenderly to himself, he gazed down at her, loving her more and more with every second that passed. Risking being caught, he reached out to her and lightly stroked her smooth brow.

As soon as his cold fingertips touched her hairline, her entire body jerked, and she mumbled, "Spiders!" before coming awake.

Christine's blue eyes fluttered open, and she looked up at Erik, clearly seeing him in the darkness, as though at first she did not recognize him. "Erik,…? Are you in my dream?"

He shook his head with a sweet smile. "I don't think so. You were dreaming of arachnids."

"Oh, the spiders," she muttered groggily, reaching a warm arm out of the covers to rub her eyes. "They dance through my dreams." As if suddenly becoming aware and fully awake, she abruptly stopped rubbing her eyes and lifted herself up on one elbow, her long braid falling over her shoulder with her motion. "What are you doing here? Is it morning?"

"No," he replied, suddenly feeling awkward and ridiculous for being in her room uninvited, "it's still the middle of the night."

Yawning though she was trying not to, she sleepily asked, "Is something wrong?"

"I…I had a nightmare."

Christine caught the slight slur to his words, and her brow furrowed accusingly. "And have we been drinking tonight?"

"I…I just wanted to forget…. Forget my memories, forget the past, forget everything."

"I guess I can understand that." Lifting the edge of the covers for him, she invited, "Lay down?"

Erik nodded his acceptance and lowered himself onto the bed, adjusting the covers over himself as well as she scooted over to give him space.

"But don't even think about trying anything inappropriate," she warned sharply as she sank back down, this time on the chilled, unused half of the bed. "Just because you're inebriated, that does not give you a reasonable excuse." Her bold words surprised even her, but she knew that they came from her fatigue and a wanting to return to her sleep, already halfway there.

"I'll be the perfect gentleman," he replied. Erik felt uneasy to be lying in her bed, but he was so tired that he could not refuse. Perhaps he was a little drunk because he did not even consider how improper this was or any sort of consequence to his actions. But determined to keep his word as a gentleman, he turned his back to her and lay on his side, reveling in the warmth that lingered from when her body had been in that same position.

Yawning again, Christine was half-asleep, but when she felt the weight of him so close on the mattress, she edged nearer until she could find the hard shape of him. Like a contented cat, she curled against his back, resting her forehead to the thick material of his jacket, and eagerly fell back to sleep.

Erik felt her softness and her warmth seeping into his body. Within moments, he, too, began to drift off, his nightmares and horrid memories fought away by the presence of his angel.

* * *

When Christine awoke the next morning, she was alone in her bed. She would have believed Erik's presence the night before to have been all a dream if not for the fact that she was on the opposite side of the bed than she usually slept. The faint trace of a smile lit her lips as the memories returned, and sighing to herself, she slipped out of bed.

When she was dressed for the day, she hurried from her room, knowing once again the excitement of waking in Erik's home that the past week had denied her. She could hardly wait to see him, hear his voice, feel his kisses once again, and the only thought dancing in her head was _'I am in love!'_.

As she entered the living room, she halted abruptly mid-step and gasped in delight, raising elated hands to her lips.

"Finally awake," Erik commented, pleased by the delight crossing her features. In the center of his living room, thick and tall, stood an evergreen tree. He had been busy since he had awoken that morning warm in her bed, and now he saw the rewards of all of his work.

"Oh, Erik, a Christmas tree!" she exclaimed with a joyous laugh, giving a silly little jump and a clap. "It's beautiful!"

He shook his head. "Not yet, but it will be. I have it on good authority that Christmas tradition says that the tree must be decorated, but I am no connoisseur of holiday decorations, so I leave it to you. After your lesson, we shall go out and buy some suitable decorations, whatever you like."

Christine gave another little jump in her excitement and rushed to his side. He had replaced his mask, and her first act was to toss it aside, pleased that he gave no hint of reluctance. With his face bared to her, she wrapped both of her arms around his neck and smiled. "How sweet of you to bring me a tree! How can I possibly find a way to repay such generosity and kindness?"

The question had its answer in upturned, eager lips, but before Erik dared give in and kiss her as he so longed to, he grew abruptly serious. "First, I need to apologize for coming into your room uninvited last night. It was improper and-"

"And not unwelcome," she interrupted, her jovial mood unshaken. "And I do not want your apology."

"But, Christine, I had been drinking, which is not something I typically indulge in, and my actions were immoral. I should never have come to your room like that."

She cocked one dark brow at him. "Why? I rather enjoyed having you so close to me while I slept. It was…not at all unpleasant." There was a reminiscent glint to her blue eyes as she recalled the comforting shape of his body against hers. "Besides that, you cannot tell me that it was wholly a result of the alcohol."

A huff of concession escaped him. "All right, …I…I needed you…, needed to feel you close to me." His arms wrapped around her as he surrendered to his whims. "And I will admit that I also enjoyed sleeping next to you. You have this perpetual warmth to your body that I find…soothing…among other things."

She could feel the hint of a blush tint her cheeks as she probed, "Soothing? …And?"

Hunger flashed in the depths of his mismatched eyes, the ravenous sort that made her feel like the helpless prey of a wolf. "Not at all unwelcome," he said, repeating her earlier words, which she knew held so many other unuttered meanings in their innocent syllables.

Seeking permission in a look, he slowly bent to her lips, pleased when they met his with equaled eagerness. It was a bridled kiss, the passion leashed just beneath the surface, and when he pulled back after only a moment, he was pleased to see the disappointment on her face.

"Later," he promised enticingly before releasing her from his arms. "Breakfast awaits you in the dining room, and after, we will have your lesson."

"Ah, I see! Business first."

Erik gave her an amused look. "I guess you could say that, but you will not get out of a lesson."

"Oh, all right," she conceded with a mocked pout before she scurried to the dining room to eat.

Erik stared after her with anticipation bubbling within him. He could hardly stand being out of her presence even for a minute, making him wonder how he could consider the way he had spent his life before her as living. _This_ was living. This day to day eagerness and happiness and excitement. And he felt that for the first time, he understood what it meant to be truly alive.

* * *

Christine's lesson lasted well into the afternoon hours. Despite her insistence, Erik had chosen to wear his mask once again, needing to be her teacher, the formal, pristine, seemingly perfect angel. She was beginning to understand that his mask was his most essential piece of clothing, that he felt more vulnerable without it than without anything else. Baring his face to her in that way was as intimate a gesture as baring the deepest recesses of his soul and equally as frightening.

When they had finished, she wandered over to her beautiful tree while he was putting music away, and her fingers idly brushed over one of the prickly branches as she remarked, "It is such a lovely tree."

"You deserve only the best," he replied, watching her intently. "And now if you are well finished staring at it, we can go and purchase some trimmings for it. After all, I did promise you a real, traditional Christmas."

She lifted her excited, blue eyes to his. "I thought you didn't know what a traditional Christmas was."

"I am a bit hesitant with the details, I will admit, but I'm quite prepared to do the best I can to learn and create one for you."

"Thank you," she suddenly whispered in all earnestness, and he smiled modestly in reply.

"Of course. Now shall we be off?"

Christine nodded. "Let me just go and get my cloak."

As she scurried to her room, he called down the hallway after her, "I also thought we might have a light supper at one of those cafés you're so fond of."

Christine returned to the living room with her thick, woolen cloak over her hunter green gown and a pretty, green-trimmed bonnet over a crown of dark hair. "We don't have to do that, Erik. I know that you do not have a fondness for social places."

"Maybe not, but with you at my side, I feel I could go anywhere, do anything even if the rest of the world shoots venom at me. You make me strong enough to endure it." Erik trailed his gaze over her from head to toe, noting the satisfaction dancing on her features as he appreciated her appearance. "Shall we?" he offered, extending his arm, which she took with a contented tilt of her head.

It was Christmas Eve, and when Erik and Christine emerged into the world above, he was reminded of it. There was such a strange warmth on the air despite the true frigidity of the winter weather, an internal sort of warmth. Though it was already dark outside, every light in the city seemed to be burning tonight, the streets even more crowded than Erik could imagine. And everyone was so happy, so congenial, smiling and giving good wishes as they walked past.

"Do you know that lady?" Erik asked Christine when a finely dressed woman gave her a smile and a pat on the arm along with holiday greetings.

"No," Christine replied, meeting his confused expression. "This is Christmas, Erik, _real_ Christmas. It is the well-wishing and acceptance of mankind and a celebration of life and love. It is a _feeling_; it is in the air around us. Can you feel it?"

"I've never felt anything like it before."

"And if you will notice, no one is staring at your mask."

He had to admit that she was right. The people of Paris were wishing him good tidings as they walked by with no more than a kindly smile and that internal warm feeling Christine called Christmas. It was uniquely odd to him.

They arrived at one of the nicest stores in the city, and Christine halted abruptly outside the door and turned to him with a flustered shake of her head.

"Not here. Erik, this store is very expensive."

He laughed at her aghast expression. "Silly girl, money is of no consequence to me. Surely, you know that."

"No, I don't. You've neglected to mention your monetary status, and it was hardly proper of me to ask. But since you've broached the subject yourself…. Are you wealthy?"

Erik laughed again at her bluntness. "Quite. Have you not realized that I own the opera house?"

"You do?"

"Yes, indeed. Your dear managers work for me although I remain a relatively silent administrator."

"Silent?" she exclaimed in disbelief. "You send them threats on practically a weekly basis, dictating how to run the theatre as an opera ghost! That is not exactly silently administrating!"

A devious grin curved his lips as he shrugged blamelessly. "What can I say? I enjoy the game. And don't mock! They follow their ghost's commands quickly enough, don't they?"

"Well yes, because they are half-scared out of their minds." One dark brow arched dubiously as realization dawned. "Wait a moment. You are the owner, and you collect a salary as such. Then why does the opera ghost get paid as well? Is that your way of cheating them out of more money?"

"Cheating _them_? No, you innocent, little thing. Do you think me a fool? I may not make appearances at the opera that they know of, but I do keep a constant eye on them and their books. The managers, Andre and Firmin and LeFevre before them, have been cheating their 'owner' for years, so the opera ghost is only collecting the rest of my salary for me. The truth is, though, that I am plenty wealthy without it; I don't tolerate cheating under _my_ opera house roof."

"How wealthy?" she asked with a little smile.

Imitating her smile, he replied, "Wealthy enough for you and I to live like kings for the rest of our lives."

"You and I…?"

Erik immediately regretted his words when he could not decipher the look in her eyes, unsure if the very idea pleased her or terrified her. "I…I hadn't really given any thought to a future without you in it," he revealed plainly.

Her expression suddenly cleared as she looked at him, shaking her head. "Oh no, no, it isn't that. I…I like the thought of being a part of your future."

"The biggest part. Then what were you thinking about just then?"

Embarrassment flamed her cheeks pink. "It's ridiculous…and selfish…and vain. I…I was thinking that I've never been wealthy before. When my father was alive, we were quite poor, but he always saw that I was clothed and fed and taken care of. Since he died, I've had to worry about money more times than I'd care to count. Some days before I became employed at the opera, I didn't even have enough to eat, and even now, I don't own fine things; my dresses are nearly worn through because I can't yet afford new ones." She gestured to the gown she now wore. "The clothes you've given me are the finest I've ever had. You have given me a whole new sort of life that I don't feel I deserve."

"And that is exactly why you _do_ deserve it. Because you are not vain or selfish. Because you've suffered more than anyone should. And because you have the most wonderful, most open heart of anyone I've ever known." Erik gently caressed her cheek with his gloved hand as if she were made of fine porcelain. "And I'm going to see to it that you have everything you could ever want for the rest of your life, that I spoil you so much that you forget you were ever poor or hungry."

Christine smiled and leaned in to his touch. A small voice in her head wanted to ask more, to wonder over his intentions for the future he was planning, but she pushed it away, choosing instead to revel in the moment.

"Now shall we go inside the store and find some decorations for our tree?" he asked sweetly, and she nodded and let him lead her through the door.

Christine was hesitant at first in her choosing, and it was only with Erik's insistence that she picked what she really wanted despite the prices. They left the store with a bag full of sparkling ribbons and candles and various other trinkets that she could hardly wait to see on the tree.

After that, Erik brought her to a café, and she noted to herself with a sense of pride that he did not pay attention to any random stares of the other patrons, keeping his gaze on her and his lighthearted mood intact. She herself was attempting to act like a proper lady, wondering if now, she would have to start behaving with a fraction of reserve. No one usually paid heed to her when she was only modestly attired; she blended in with the crowd. But now more properly and affluently gowned and with the idea of Erik's wealth yet in mind, she was paying attention to every eye upon her.

"Stop it," Erik instructed as he brought his glass of wine to his lips for an awkward sip.

"Stop what?"

"You don't think I see what you are doing, but I know you too well."

"Whatever do you mean?" she asked innocently, and yet part of her was strangely thrilled with the idea that he could read her so completely.

He shook his head adamantly and commanded, "Stop acting like a lady."

"And I'm not usually a lady?" she demanded back with feigned indignation.

"No," he replied as if the very idea was preposterous. "So stop it. Be loud and obnoxious. Slouch in your seat. Throw food across the room if you must. I don't care. Just stop this prim and prissiness. Be Christine."

"You don't want me to be a lady?"

"No, I want you to be a hoyden. Now have at it."

She laughed at such a comment from him, her usual, uncontained, resounding laugh, and he beamed a smile back at her without a care to how the other people in the café cast glances their way.

"There's _my_ Christine."

They continued with their meal, and after the food was taken away, and they were enjoying a cup of coffee, a few loud chords were played on an upright piano near the front of the café. Christine watched in eager delight as one of the waitresses was persuaded by her comrades to sing a Christmas carol to entertain the clientele. The young girl, Marie she was called, faked modesty and embarrassment over their callings; being accustomed to the behavior of opera divas, Christine could tell instantly that the girl was actually haughty about her talent and eager to take the stage. She glanced over at Erik, who gave her a knowing grin to insist that they were sharing the same thought.

The player at the piano began a well-known Christmas carol, and the girl raised her voice to join in. The moment her first note hit the air, Erik lightly kicked Christine's leg under the table, and as she met his eye, he made a face of agony that made her giggle behind her hand. Christine would not call the waitress terrible; the girl had a decent tone and was mostly on pitch, but she knew that her teacher had an incredibly high standard for perfection in regard to music.

As the girl finished the carol, the restaurant patrons clapped politely, and she gave a bobbed curtsy, feigning modesty, even though Christine saw through the guise to the arrogance beneath.

"Now imagine if you gave them a few notes," Erik muttered softly to her.

Her blue eyes widened, and she frantically shook her head when she saw the flash of mischief in his gaze, the opera ghost smile on his lips. "No, no, no! Erik, don't!" she hissed beneath her breath.

"You shouldn't say such things, Christine," Erik scolded, loud enough to draw attention. "The girl had a decent enough singing voice."

Christine cringed in her seat, afraid to look up as the maitre de of the café, having clearly heard Erik's words, rushed over to their table and asked, "Is there a problem, monsieur?"

"Yes," Erik replied, his voice still raised so that all of the restaurant patrons could listen in curiously. "My lady here insists that she could sing better than that little girl of yours."

"Oh?" the maitre de questioned, intrigued if only because all of the other people in the restaurant were watching the exchange intently.

"No, no, no," Christine was mumbling so that only Erik heard, but he just laughed with amusement.

"How about a song, mam'selle?" the maitre de asked while the waitress Marie shot a spiteful look in their direction.

"Oh no, I couldn't," Christine protested desperately.

The other people at their tables were muttering insistences that she sing, and the accompanist playing a few random chords on the piano called, "I can play anything you like, mademoiselle. I have played for singers all over the city. I will follow your lead."

"Come on, mam'selle," the waitress Marie taunted, deciding to join in the crowd even as her expression clearly revealed that she thought Christine couldn't sing and certainly wouldn't outshine her own performance. "One song won't kill you."

With a seething glare at a delighted Erik, Christine reluctantly got to her feet and stepped around the occupied chairs and tables to the front of the room. Erik watched her intently, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest in unspoken pleasure, knowing that she would show these ignorant amateurs what a real singer was in her very first pitch.

Christine stuttered the title of a traditional carol to the accompanist, nothing obscure or showy, and as he played an introduction, she glanced over the audience, all unknown faces watching her expectantly and enjoying this impromptu holiday show while Marie was staring daggers from the back of the room. Her gaze landed on Erik, and to her annoyance, he had an entirely self-satisfied grin on his face that made her want to lunge and attack.

The introduction ended, and standing tall and elegant, Christine opened her mouth and began to sing. Her voice echoed around her, the tone not with her usual fullness and richness but pleasant, well suiting the song she was singing. Quite deliberately, she was not straying from the typical and accepted, singing the song straightforward as Erik studied her fixedly behind his haughty expression.

He cast a glance to the waitress and saw that she was beaming, believing Christine to be ordinary and herself to be superior, and with Christine's present performance, Erik did not disagree with her; Christine seemed merely to be a pretty girl with a pleasant voice…. And, dear Lord, was she acting thus on purpose?

Christine met Erik's eye; she was now the one in control. It amused her to see how blatantly he was impressed with this turn of events and the mere fact that she would so readily lower herself just to spite him, and all he could do was admit defeat with a soft chuckle and a shake of his head. As she continued with her mediocre performance, a smile curved the corners of her lips to bask in her seeming victory. …And then she saw the challenge flash in his eyes, the challenge to prove herself and her talent, the challenge to show them all what he knew she could do, and with an intentional arching of her brows, she took it.

The verse ended, and as the accompanist brought the melody back around for her to come in again, she transformed herself. This time when she began to sing with Erik's challenge hanging on the air between them, she truly let her voice take flight. The melody of the song was swallowed up in a mélange of ornaments and fast-moving runs, every note now displaying the richness and full depth of her voice, so tremendous that it was felt resounding off every surface of every object in the café.

Erik nodded with overt praise and satisfaction, a low laugh rumbling in his chest. She was like a beacon in the darkness in front of all of these restaurant patrons, her voice forming a halo of light that encompassed them all. Her flexibility and agility of tone was astounding even to him, who felt he knew every facet of the voice he had developed and trained. She was soaring up and down very difficult passages that she was composing on the spot while the audience stared in complete captivation, shocked to silent observation and wide eyes as she lifted her head with pride-filled haughtiness, an apparent diva beneath her modesty. Only Erik knew with absolute certainty that her adopted arrogance was fake.

Tossing her head so that a few curls that had fallen loose of her crown danced about her, she gave Erik a triumphant look and allowed her voice to lightly float up a scale to land with its fullness on a glorious high note where it lingered and swelled.

Immediately, her audience erupted in thunderous applause and calls, leaping to their feet, and Erik's expression gushed of his adoration so profound that she could feel it like a warm glow upon her cheeks. As she took a diva's curtsy, her eyes remained only on Erik's, her grin for him alone.

Slipping back through the congratulatory crowd to her table, she raised her brows with a bit of impish wickedness as she taunted, "A hoyden? Is that what you called me? Well, was that hoydenish enough for you?"

"It will do for now," he replied, his words a gross understatement that made her scowl with matched playfulness.

Later, after they had left the café and were once again walking down the noisy Parisian streets, Christine remarked, "I should have made _you_ sing for them."

"I don't sing for people."

"You sing for me," she protested.

"You are special," he replied, smiling fondly at her as he reveled in the feel of her arm looped through his for the hundredth time that night.

Christine smiled back and declared, "You surprised me tonight."

"How so?"

Considering her words carefully first, she tentatively explained, "You drew attention to yourself, to both of us, and never once worried about your mask or that people were staring."

To her relief, he did not take her words in the wrong vein. "I told you, with you at my side, I feel I can face anything." A memory flashed in his head, bringing him a light chuckle. "Besides, it was well worth it to see the look on that smug waitress's face when you broke out with that exquisite high note."

"Was she upset?" Christine anxiously asked. During the melee after her song, she had not given the girl a single thought.

"Practically boiling over. She stormed off to the kitchen, and I did not see her in the café again while we were there."

As she giggled over the very idea, Christine idly glanced up at the street sign they were passing. "Erik, we are near my apartment. May we stop? There's something I need to get."

"Of course."

In her mind, Christine envisioned the wrapped present that waited there, Erik's Christmas present. It had been nearly impossible to get over the past week with Erik's ever-watching eye on her, but she had managed and had spent every bit of her savings on it without regret. It was perfect. It was a first edition copy of Gounod's _Roméo et Juliette_, bearing some of the composer's own ink marks and changed notes. She knew how much Erik would treasure such a valuable gift and the symbolism that it held, her mind vividly recalling the duet they had sung from what felt like an eternity ago.

As they arrived at the doorstep to the building full of small, yet adequate apartments, a voice called in greeting, "Mademoiselle Daaé,", and turning her head, Christine saw her landlady, Madame Dubois coming out the door just as they approached.

"Good evening, Madame Dubois," Christine called merrily as the old woman joined them. Christine immediately noticed Madame Dubois' suspicious regard of Erik, her eyes taking in their joined arms before landing inevitably on the mask.

Erik shifted uncomfortably beside Christine, and she lifted her free hand to set atop their entwined arms in unspoken reassurance.

"It's rather late for a gentleman caller, isn't it?" the old woman asked pointedly.

"Actually, we are not staying," Christine replied, keeping the lightness in her voice. "I only came to get something."

Madame Dubois was still staring at Erik, skeptical and obviously not happy with his presence. "Well, there is a package for you on your table. A very handsome young man came by this afternoon, and when I told him that you were not home, he asked if he could leave the package, so I let him in."

"A very handsome young man?" Erik questioned although he had no doubts.

"Rich, too," Madame Dubois added with another spiteful glance at Erik.

"Raoul," Christine muttered softly, and Madame Dubois nodded.

"Yes, I believe that was his name. Is he…a gentleman friend of yours…or a suitor perhaps?" The landlady was hardly subtle.

"Oh, Christine has many gentleman friends, doesn't she?" Erik's comment was sharp and angered, never once giving away the hurt beneath.

"She should," Madame Dubois answered, mimicking Erik's tone right back at him. "She's a beautiful girl and much too young to settle on just one -"

"Thank you, Madame Dubois," Christine interrupted. "Come on, Erik." She dragged him toward the door, calling over her shoulder to the landlady, "Merry Christmas, Madame Dubois," knowing that the old woman continued to leer after them until they were out of sight.

Without a word or apology for the landlady's behavior, Christine led the way to her apartment, every step weighted in dread for what she knew to be awaiting her. As soon as they entered the door, Raoul's brightly wrapped package drew both of their eyes from where it sat so innocently on her table.

Christine cringed to herself. The audacity of the Vicomte to come into her home uninvited and leave her gifts as if they were engaged or even courting! And she watched Erik carefully, desperate to be able to read his thoughts through his aloof expression.

Slowly approaching the table, he lowered a hand to part the folded card and read its message aloud. "_ 'Merry Christmas, Christine. With all my love, Raoul'. _Love…." Erik repeated the word, staring off to the furthest wall yet not seeing it.

"Erik," she urgently called. "It is only a Christmas present. It is a custom to give gifts at Christmas."

"I know that," he snapped, but abruptly, his demeanor changed to feigned cordiality, even though she glimpsed the pain constantly beneath. "Well, shall we open your little gift? Or were you just going to leave it there? That hardly seems gracious."

"I don't need to open it now."

"Oh no, I insist on it." He pushed the wrapped box in her direction. "Let's see what sort of taste the Vicomte has in gifts for his dear childhood _friend_."

Christine did not want to obey, her intuition screaming at her to leave it untouched, but she knew that he would be even more furious if she refused. And so with trembling fingers, she unwrapped the small box. As soon as the paper was gone, she had a vivid idea of what it held with an acute sense of dread as she dared to open it without pause. A gasp fell from her lips at the contents.

"A gift from a _friend_?" Erik taunted.

Momentarily stunned, she almost forgot Erik's presence as the brilliant object in the box glinted rainbow colors off of the soft light of her room. It was a necklace, a very gaudy, expensive necklace. Though she admitted to herself that it was not at all her taste in jewelry, it still held her transfixed. She had never in her life seen anything so valuable or so effulgent. It was over a dozen diamonds, thickly set. Dear Lord, it was as tawdry and vulgar as some of the costume jewels she wore onstage, and yet this one was not fake, painted beads. This was genuine, semiprecious, and overwhelming.

"Well?" Erik demanded curtly as her fingers tentatively traced over one smooth stone.

"Well what?" she nearly shouted back.

"These hardly seem a 'friendly' gift. Do you not agree? I cannot imagine any man spending such an exorbitant amount on a woman unless he was hopelessly in love with her."

"I realize that," she retorted, slamming the box shut. "Do you honestly believe that I intend to keep this?"

"I couldn't care one way or the other." Practically growling his rage, he stalked to the door, shouting over his shoulder, "I will await you outside."

The forceful bang of the door as he threw it shut struck her like a punch in the stomach. For a moment, she hung her head in her hands, rubbing her temples as if she could ease the tension gathered there. His moods changed as rapidly as the weather could and certainly as unpredictably. Raoul's gift had upset him, she was no fool to that, but had he absolutely no faith in her or in her affections? Did he really think her such a half-wit fool to be entranced over a few shiny baubles?

Lifting the edge of her skirt in her shaking hand, she suddenly scurried to her little window and peered below. He was there lingering back in the shadows as people walked by on the sidewalk near him. He looked so sad, so pained, his usually straight back and shoulders hunched forward, his masked face hung low. And as if he felt her gaze on him, he unexpectedly lifted his eyes to the window she stood in and regarded her morosely as if she was already so far away and lost to him.

Overcome with the abrupt onset of despair in her heart, she turned away and hurriedly went to collect her things, all joy drained out of their evening.

Their walk back to the opera house was pensive; they no longer even walked arm in arm as she followed a few steps behind though he never once glanced back to be certain she was even there.

When they arrived back at the underground house, he stormed off to his room, slamming the door in his wake, and she stood rooted to her spot in the hallway, staring after him. It was as if in that one movement, he had forced all of the breath out of her lungs, for she felt deflated, completely unable to breathe.

No! She would not allow him to do this again, to build walls on his own that kept her away. He was determined to destroy them, and she would not idly stand aside and watch it happen.

With no evident cause, a smile crept across her lips, lighting up her features as plans spun in her mind. And practically laughing in her excitement, she fetched the bag Erik had carelessly cast aside near the door and went to work.


	10. Chapter 10

Erik sat unmoving in his room. A couple of hours at least had gone by, but he was paying no heed to time, not when his heart was aching so deeply and keeping all of his attention.

A soft rapping on his door brought him back to reality, and he was at first confused by it, forgetting of any other presence in his home. Christine…. A part of him had assumed her to be in bed…or even to have left him, snuck undetected out of his home and his life. Perhaps it would have been better if she had.

"Erik? _Ange_?" she called through the barrier of the hard, oak door.

He did not want to answer, wanted instead to curl up into himself and never emerge, but he knew he was incapable of denying her, his student, his angel, …his love.

Rising on unsteady legs, he staggered to the door and softly opened it enough to peer out. Lord, she was lovely! There was a light that always seemed to surround her and shine out from her very flesh as though she was marked indeed as the heavenly being he called her.

"Erik," she called again, her eyes alone showing a hinted wariness, "won't you come out? There is something I want to show you."

"I think it best I don't."

"Please, Erik, please." She saw it the instant he reluctantly gave in, and her smile grew to its full curves. The door was opened the rest of the way, and she took his hand in hers before he even noticed what she was doing so that the first contact of her soft fingers with his shook him inside and out.

Christine drew him with her down the hall and to the sitting room where she halted abruptly in the doorway and gave a delighted laugh and a very childish skip of her feet.

These past hours while he had presumed her to be abed, she had instead been quite busy transforming his sitting room into a holiday refuge. The tree, which had stood so dark and bare before, was now decorated with ribbons tied to the branches and little trinkets hung and candles set on small plates attached to the branches, each giving little flickering flames so that the entire tree seemed to glow with a light similar to the one Christine herself possessed. But the tree was not the culmination of her decorating. No, she had also taken great care to hang garlands across the mantle of his fireplace and to the top of his long bookshelf, each decorated as well with ribbons and bows. And raising his eyes dubiously, he saw that to the ceiling of his sitting room, she had somehow managed to clip white, metal snowflakes on sparkling strings of various lengths so that it appeared to be snowing in his very home, or at least one still moment in time where delicate snowflakes were just about to tumble to their heads.

Christine was giggling at his stunned expression, interweaving her fingers with his as she reveled with pride her accomplishment. "Oh, do you like it, Erik? Do you?"

As he turned his riveted gaze to her, the spark of something akin to happiness that had flashed in him slowly faded away and with it, the smile in his eyes until she could feel him becoming distant once again. "It's…it's lovely, Christine," he replied with blatant sadness. "Lovely."

"No," she suddenly commanded with a vivid tenacity that he could not argue with. "Don't do this, Erik. Don't push me away."

"I'm not. It's the rest of the world that is responsible for that." He dropped her hand, missing the warm softness of her fingers the instant that they were gone, and with a sorrowful sigh, he wandered to the fireplace, staring distractedly at her decorations, the garlands and ribbons with their pretty elegance like a blur of festive colors to his unfocused eyes.

"This is about Raoul's gift, isn't it?"

Erik's back stiffened at the very mention of his name. "That has something to do with it, I'd wager."

Christine gave an annoyed huff and stalked over to his usual chair near where he stood. With a great flounce of her dark green skirts, she threw herself into the cushioned seat and drew her knees up to her chest. "You know you're being ridiculous, don't you?"

"Ridiculous!" Erik flipped about to face her. "He's in love with you, Christine. That gift alone should tell you that. And the worst of it is that he obviously believes his feelings are requited."

"But they're not," she stated simply. "You know they're not, don't you?"

"For now." The anguish returned to his masked features as he averted his eyes back to the fire. "He is determined to have you, to win your heart…, and he is young and rich and handsome…. My God, Christine, how can I compare with that? I am a murdering freak who lives in the dungeons of hell. I have no right to you, and in the end, the Vicomte will take you away from me."

Christine listened to his fear, to this situation that he believed to be only hopeless, and the urge to scream arose in her throat, the urge to throttle him until he saw the truth that she believed she had put so plainly before him. Taking a deep breath to calm her unladylike urges, she reminded herself for the hundredth time to be patient, that everyone else in his life had betrayed and shunned him. Why should he think her to be any different?

"Why indeed," she muttered to herself on her own thoughts, drawing a confused glance from him in her direction. "I mean that your predictions have no credibility and no basis. I do not _love_ the Vicomte."

"Maybe not, but he is not going to take that as your answer. He is going to pursue you until you agree."

"Do I _not_ have a mind of my own?" she angrily demanded. "_Listen_ to me, Erik. I don't _want_ the Vicomte. I don't want his jewels or his money or his title, and I certainly don't want him."

"And yet he is determined to make you his," he revealed solemnly as he trailed his eyes over her features tenderly. She looked so like a child in his chair, curled up as if lost in its leather arms. "When I ache so deeply with every fiber of my being to make you mine."

Rising to her feet, she edged nearer to him even as her unthreatening fingers reached for his mask and drew it away from his ravaged features. "I _am_ yours, Erik. I always have been."

Those mismatched eyes stared at her, the features of that skeleton face gradually becoming darkened. Seemingly without impetus, he grabbed her by the arm and dragged her soft, yielding body against his roughly, clutching her to him with a viselike grip. A fierce possessiveness stole over him as he rasped out, "Yes, you are mine. You are mine! And I will not allow the Vicomte to take you from me! Not while I still have breath in my body! You are mine!"

The sensible fraction of her mind tried to tell her to be frightened by the uncontrolled, untamed violence that flashed so menacingly in him, but the rest of her eagerly succumbed to it wholeheartedly. Lord help her, she savoured it! She wanted to be his! His everything! She wanted him to be jealous of Raoul if only to be all the more possessive over her!

In spite of his crushing hold, the tinge of a smile curled her lips, leaving him both surprised and intrigued by her lack of fear; it only pushed him further as keeping one hand pressed firmly to her back, the other one drifted to stroke her cheek, her brow, to get lost in her falling tresses. His breathing was labored, passing his lips in harsh gasps as his mind drifted to the sensation of her warm body molded flush to his, to the dizzying waves of passion that were assaulting his undefended body and attacking his rationality like a drug.

Christine stared at him, taking in the passion-induced fever that seemed to make his disfigured features all the more threatening. They were no longer the soft, gentle scars that she remembered gazing at her with such adoring love. Now they were forced taut and stern with his repressed need, almost savage as if he would devour her or cause her pain in his attempt to mark her as his. She did not know how to react, wanting to struggle against him and surrender to him at the same time, so she forced herself to be still and wait for him to act.

Stroking her cheek again, he hoarsely bid, "Shall I make you mine now? …Truly make you mine?"

No answer would form in her clouded mind. On instinct alone, she tilted her face up to his welcome caress. Make her his…. She only had a vague notion of what that meant. Her meager education about what occurred between a man and a woman was entirely due to her days spent in the _corps de ballet_. Those young girls were quite experienced with the patrons and spoke of little else when they were offstage gossiping. The very idea of the sorts of things she'd overheard was a little frightening, and her eyes widened with all of her inquisitive, unuttered questions as she stared expectantly at Erik, waiting for the elaboration she could not ask for.

He felt her eyes upon him, felt her trepidation, and before she could have the opportunity to speak, he bent and captured her willing mouth in a ravenous kiss. He showed no restraint, no gentleness or hesitancy, only kissed her with a feverishness that made her knees weak so that it was only his arms that kept her from falling. His mouth was devouring hers, his other hand slipping into her hair to pull it loose of its neat crown. And as the pins tumbled down to the carpeted floor and her curls fell free in a cascade of dark tresses, his hand delved into their rich texture, combing through the length of them and entwining and tangling in their enveloping warmth.

Drawing his lips away again, he gasped out near her ear in a breath that tickled the sensitive flesh there, "Christine, you hold such power over me. One touch of your hand could melt me; one kiss could steal my soul. Every inch of my body is humming with life, …with desire. If you don't run away now, I might lose myself completely in you."

Her curiosity was piqued as she sought the understanding she lacked. She was not the sort to be scared easily, not when everything seemed to have an explanation, a cause, or a goal, and though it made her cheeks redden with abashment, she urged timidly, "Tell me, Erik. …What would you do to me?"

Her inquiry was simple and so incredibly innocent, and yet it set his body aflame as much as if she had touched him. Letting out the shallow breath that he had not even realized he had been holding, he leaned his forehead against hers and closed his eyes for a long moment, willing his blood to cool.

"What would I do to you?" he repeated her question to himself hoarsely. "How can I even begin to give you an answer?" Erik's hungry eyes slowly opened to stare at her then, as deeply as if they penetrated her soul, and he spoke in a low, fervent whisper of his most intimate musings and fantasies. "I've imagined it so often, …how you would look, how your skin would feel, how you would taste. I would undress you so slowly, barely touching you yet, not allowing my skin to find yours until you were entirely bared to me, until I could have long moments to solely ponder your beauty and memorize every inch, every minute detail, every flawless feature of you. And only when you were ingrained so deeply and permanently in my mind's eye would I dare to put my hands on you, would I dare to experience the smoothness of your skin. My God, Christine, I want to explore you everywhere, from head to toe, with my hands and my fingers …and then my mouth until I know every texture, every indentation and crevice, …every flavor of you…."

His detailed description was having as much of an effect on her as it was on him. Beneath the suddenly heavy and binding material of her gown, her skin felt as if it had taken on a new sensitive quality, tingling like he had actually touched her instead of only spoken the words. That aching emptiness that was growing so familiar attacked her, demanding some unknown satisfaction, and she squirmed against it, yearning to hear more of his fantasy, wishing that they were not just the words of a tale but instead of a transpired event that was being relived.

"And then…?" she heard herself demanding, hardly aware that she had spoken aloud.

His misshapen lips curved into a smile at her insistence. "How passionate you are! Just as I am. And yet so innocent. That drives me just as mad as your kisses and touches, knowing that you are untouched and unknowing of these things, that you have never belonged to anyone else, that you will be mine alone."

"Only ever yours," she agreed in a breathless whisper.

Erik gave a cry of delight and agreement with her words. _Only his…._

All of a sudden, she pulled back enough to form an intelligible sentence. "You know of these things. Does that mean that you've shared them with someone else?" She knew that she was being rudely blatant, but she could not have controlled herself at that point. She _needed_ to know the answer with every bit of herself. "Who was she? …Someone else you've loved?"

Erik laughed, a genuine laugh of the utter ridiculousness of the very thought, and his response brought a perturbed expression as her response. "No, no," he quickly explained between chuckles. "Do not misunderstand me. I laugh because of your preposterous allegation." Abruptly serious, his gaze bore into hers with complete honesty. "I have _never_ been with anyone else; I am as innocent as you. What woman would have a monster like me in her bed?"

"I would," she replied before she even realized what she had said; the words seemed to simply fall from her lips with a thought.

Her admission made him beam with happy satisfaction and admiration. He often misjudged how strong she was in mind, body, and spirit, how unlike the rest of humanity. "Would you then?"

Disregarding his words and pretending that she had never conceded such a revelation, she instead continued to probe, "Then if you've never experienced what you speak so plainly of, how do you know about it at all?"

Now it was his turn to be embarrassed. He couldn't even meet her eye as he answered her. "From books. I told you that I am quite a learned scholar on all subjects of life."

"There are books about such things?"

"There are books about anything you can possibly imagine. You just have to have the aspiration to learn." Erik still would not look at her as he went on, "I may have read of such things and imagined them, but that is all I have, Christine: knowledge."

She shrugged apathetically. "Even that is more than I have…. But I _do_ know what I feel, …and I want those things you were speaking of." Modesty and apprehension were better off ignored, she concluded, for she was not accustomed to their presence anyway.

"Christine, are you certain?" Erik was aching so badly, but still he hesitated, needing her to be as undoubting as he himself was.

As an answer, she closed the distance between them and sought his mouth with hers. She moved her lips so gently against his that he felt a dull shudder travel all through his body. It was the perfect invitation, the most undeniable temptation.

When she pulled back after only a moment more, there was an assured smile on her lips.

Finally finding his voice again, he commanded, "Then go to my room. I will blow out the candles on the tree and put out the fire in the hearth, and then I shall meet you there."

"All right." She felt her heart skip nervously in her chest as he released her from his embrace. On shaky knees, she slowly stumbled out of the living room, feeling his eyes on her until she was out of sight, branding her with the blazing fire in their depths.

Erik was rooted to the spot for a long moment, desperately attempting to grasp the situation with his mind. It was almost too difficult to believe, too impossible to accept. Now with her out of his reach, doubts began to clutter his eager head and make him apprehensive. He had no right to this, to her; yes, she was his, and he had no intention of ever letting her go no matter what it cost him, but he had never assumed that in keeping her, he would share her bed. It had seemed too great a sacrifice, and though he had always simply accepted a celibate lifestyle, his vivid, passionate nature constantly teased him with fantasies of what would never be. Before Christine, the woman of his dreams had been faceless, nameless, just a woman who would look beyond his ugliness and love him and willingly give herself to him with heart and soul. When Christine had appeared in his life from the first instant he had seen her, she had become that imaginary woman, her face, her voice, her curves. How could there have ever been another? And his images had become all the more lifelike and torturous, haunting his waking and sleeping mind with both dreams and nightmares.

Forcing his legs to carry his weight, he wandered over to the tree and blew out the candles secured to the branches until they were all extinguished. As a great puff of smoke created a haze about him, he went to the fireplace and bent down to the blazing flames. Odd. His unmasked face gave a twinge of pain at the heat from the fire even though he was a safe distance away, unpleasant but also so foreign. Before Christine, his scars had only ever known the smooth, coldness of the mask, and they were quiet and hardly acknowledged when they didn't have to be. Since she had freed them from their manmade binding, they were alive and buzzing with dozens of new sensations. He could not say that he did not like it. But ingrained in his memory beyond everything else, was the sensation of her warm fingers against its rough texture, the feeling of her caress, the only touch it had ever known, and lifting a hand, he pressed it against his cheek gently with the memory. For the first time, a wave of anticipation hit him like lightning, striking from head to toe with the very thought that soon it could be her touch, her fingers, her hands everywhere on his body, exploring and caressing. Was it wrong to hope? Was it immoral to want it to be true and to let it happen?

Erik sighed to himself as his mind struggled and continued to attend the fire, wondering what she was thinking at that moment.

_Dear Lord, what am I doing?_ Christine's frantic mind demanded as she paced back and forth in his room, nearly wearing a hole in the carpet. She could not hold still, could not be calm, not with a reeling head and a heart that was pounding in her ears.

She was not doubting; she didn't have the time to doubt. No. She was too busy trying to formulate an idea of what she was supposed to do. Though Erik's words had shone a little light on the subject, she still felt horribly unconfident. She loved him so much and knew without even needing to be told that he had not believed he would ever have her in this way. It made a smile come to her lips just to think of how she had surprised him, how he had fantasized such things with her, of her, and now she would make them come alive. And that idea gave her a thrill of anticipation.

Anticipation mixed with anxiety…. She glanced down at herself as she continued to pace with a rumble of nerves. She could not help but be modest over her body; she had not even liked to change clothes with the other ballerinas in a dressing room. And now he would see her, …not only see but also touch. That both made her ache with a strange eagerness and also caused her a brief rush of fear as her arms unconsciously wrapped around her waist. What if he was dissatisfied with her? What if she did not measure up to all of his fantasies?

She did not have long to dwell on the thought as she heard hesitant footsteps approaching. The lanterns in the room were all turned low so that only a dim glow surrounded her, and as he appeared in the threshold of the door, he was barely more than a dark shadow, a shadow that would consume her.

Erik sought her out and scrutinized her with a look as she hastily quit her pacing and faced his shape, her arms still protectively about her waist. He had been intending to give her an option, to ask her once more and give her the chance to refuse, but when he saw her there, so beautiful, so perfect, he could not. In the back of his mind, he feared she would indeed take his offered way out, and he just couldn't let her, not now when what he had wanted for so long with every fiber of his being was so near to his grasp.

Straightening his shoulders, he walked into the room with a determined confidence, acting the role of a bridegroom on his wedding night taking his right to his wife's body, and he tingled with excitement at the thought. Christine would make such a beautiful bride, his mind insisted, such a vision in white and a long veil over those dark curls. For tonight, she would be just that, his bride, his love.

No longer trembling or hesitant, he went to the lamps in the room, his eyes following only her as he turned up the lights so that they were more properly glowing.

"What…what are you doing?" she stammered softly, her mouth suddenly dry at the ravenous gleam of his eyes, the elegant strides that carried him about the room. Why couldn't she be equally as poised?

He had the urge to laugh at her meek trepidation, but he didn't let even a smile through. "I can see you equally as well in dark or light. I am just curious to see the flames play over your skin."

A shiver tingled the back of Christine's neck, and she could feel herself already surrendering, eager in spite of her timidity. She watched his fingers close over the buttons of his suit jacket and began to unfasten them, scrutinizing as they parted and he eased the jacket off, tossing it carelessly onto a nearby chair.

Her breathing was catching in the back of her throat on each exhalation, her pulse racing. Was this what every woman felt when in this situation? Was it normal that her knees were shaking so hard beneath the shielding of her skirts? Was it wanton of her to feel her fingers tingling with the need to touch him?

Erik had discarded his tie, and his fingers were nimbly unbuttoning the cuffs of his dress shirt, his eyes only ever on her, wondering what sorts of thoughts assaulted her pretty, little head. He yanked his shirt out from being tucked into his pants, but he did not unbutton it yet. Time was a luxury they possessed tonight, and he was only too eager to indulge in it.

"Come to me, Christine," he bid gently, and with only a brief hesitation, she acquiesced, forcing her weak legs to take small steps until she stood wide-eyed before him.

Her focus shifted for a moment to his ravaged face, taking it in by the candlelight, the scars, the skeleton-like features. The face of Death she had first called it all those weeks ago when she had childishly torn his mask away. And now…now it was still disfigured and scarred, but it was only the face of the man she loved. She knew that face; she had seen it a hundred times in her every dream and even before that. It had been in the deepest recesses of her mind since childhood, since before she was even born, the face of the man who would complete her soul.

"What are you thinking?" Erik asked suddenly. "There's this beautiful light in your eyes."

She smiled then, a smile that seemed to extend to the deepest depths of her being. "I love you," she revealed softly.

"Oh, Christine," he breathed, matching her expression as he reached out to cup her soft cheek in his palm. "I love you." The words were so impassioned, so laden with emotion that they brought a few stray tears to the corners of her eyes.

Erik cupped her face so delicately between his palms, marveling over her. With a deliberate slowness, he slipped both hands along the line of her brow and into that mass of unbound curls, entwining in the silken lengths and then tugging her closer by them until he could claim her mouth. His lips moved gently against hers, coaxing her to follow and to respond with equal passion, and his tongue slipped between the seam to fully taste her, delving inside, savouring.

Edging nearer, she let her arms wind around him, her eager fingers sliding into the thin hair at the nape of his neck. She was kissing him back with the same urgency, the same need, melting against him while his tongue continued to intricately explore the contours of her mouth. A kiss, and it was growing more fevered, more intense until she was quickly forgetting every apprehension she had possessed and with them, every shred of shyness. The throbbing hardness of him, pressed firmly to her, defined even though her layers of skirts, was enough to steal everything but the passion she was feeling as she willingly arched against it, feeling the low rumble of a contained moan deep in his chest.

"Christine," he gasped out, tearing his lips from hers. His grasp was tight, unbreakable, but leaning his forehead to hers, he kept still, fighting to catch his breath as he focused on the softness of her, the way her body was molded so perfectly to his as if they had been formed to only fit each other.

Without another word, he drew away and encircled where she stood, coming behind her and brushing her long hair to fall over her shoulder so that he could reach the small buttons down the back of her gown. With fingers that trembled in spite of himself, he unhooked each one with a patient slowness to every movement, feeling her quiver as she forced herself to remain in place. When he had unclasped three of them, revealing the smooth skin of the nape of her neck just above the top of her chemise, he tenderly leaned forward to press a kiss to that sensitive place, his lips cool against her heated flesh.

Christine shivered with delight this time. He made her feel so beautiful, like some sort of unearthly goddess, not just at the present moment in this intimate situation but every moment of every day. Her darling angel…. She smiled with the thought as she felt him unbutton the rest of the way down her back, and helping him in his task, she pulled her arms free and pushed the gown down over her petticoat to pool at her feet.

Before walking around to observe and study as he so wanted to, he moved to the lacings of her corset, inwardly cursing the infernal contraption that fashion deemed all women wear. It looked like some sort of designed torture device, the sort he once could have made, and he was quite confident that it must be painful to wear all day. As he worked the small laces and clasps until they gave way and freed her waist, he muttered soft curses beneath his breath. Even though her chemise blocked his view, he could glimpse the indents left in her skin from the corset's boning.

"What is it?" Christine asked nervously, glancing back over her shoulder.

His hands gently formed the curved line of her waist, cringing to himself at the markings from the corset. "You have the most exquisite curves to your body, so perfect. That damn corset hides them."

She shrugged slightly. "Until society decides it is out of fashion to wear them, it would be scandalous to go without."

Lifting the edge of her chemise, he slid his hands beneath until he could press his palms flat to her waist, savouring the flawless expanse of silken skin even as he felt her suck in a harsh breath. His fingers formed the evenly spaced hollows left by the corset, which were already starting to disappear, and he rubbed at them as if trying to speed the process along.

"Damn corset," he mumbled, and then louder, he said, "It hardly seems sensible or intelligent to scar your beautiful body for fashion's sake. And we live in a civilized society." The sarcasm of his comment made a giggle escape her lips despite the frantic racing of her pulse at his touch.

Dear Lord, she had never felt anything like it! No one had ever touched her so intimately and yet so gently at the same time, as if he wanted to take away all of her pains even as the very contact of his cold flesh against hers made her weak all over. Did he know the effect he was having on her? Or was he too concentrated on his task to notice? She received an answer almost as soon as she formed the question.

Still standing behind her, Erik fell to his knees and leaned forward to press reverent kisses to her marred flesh, and she gave a sharp gasp of surprise, squirming as heat flooded her belly. Not daring to look back and let him see just how overwhelmed she was, she stared straight ahead at the glow of one of the lanterns through half-closed eyes, her mouth falling open as her breaths came in rushed gasps. Her legs were about to give out on her; she could feel it with their furious trembling, and if not for the grip of his hands still on either side of her waist, she thought she would surely have slid to the ground in a pool of need.

Even though she kept her expression hidden from him, as he continued to kiss the gentle arch of the small of her back, Erik knew what sort of an effect he was having, and it pleased him as intensely as if she were tempting him instead. Daring to further his seduction, he let his tongue dart out from between his lips to taste her skin, trailing a wet path down her flesh across the small of her back and to the boundary of her petticoats. She shivered, feeling the chill that his warm mouth left in its wake and could not suppress a little cry of delight that Erik heard and relished with a tingle of his own enjoyment.

Slow and careful with every motion, he turned her around, feeling her move so compliantly without even a modicum of resistance so that she faced where he knelt, her palms coming to rest atop his strong shoulders for stability.

Erik gazed up at her through darkened, passion-filled eyes, and he knew that very image of her would haunt his memory for the rest of his life. She was so incredibly beautiful, clothed now in only her sheer, white underclothes, her chemise bunched up still in his hands at the waist so that he clearly could see the contrast of her peachy skin to the paleness of the material. Her eyes were drowsy, half-closed, as if she was intoxicated on passion that he was causing, her skin holding a slight pink flush from an internal heat, and her loose curls hung in a mess over one shoulder where he had pushed them, tickling the back of the hand. Keeping his eyes riveted to her so that he could glimpse every passionate response, he leaned in close to her skin again and pressed the same kisses he had lavished on her back to her smooth belly.

Her entire body arched in his grasp, little cries falling from her lips even though she attempted to stifle them. She could feel the velvety wetness of his tongue as he licked at her skin and the warmth that was building within her, and as he tilted his cheek, she felt a grazing of his scars against her flawless stomach while he muttered adorations inaudibly to himself.

Curling his fingers in her chemise, he dared to extend his thumbs until he could brush them lightly over the tips of her breasts, which were like dark shadows against the flimsiness of the silk, and she gave a cry, encouraging more even as his body was throbbing so hard in desperate reply. Forming kiss after kiss along her stomach, he dared to touch her breasts again, this time with a bit more pressure, bringing his thumbs over them as he silently marveled over their weight and fullness.

"Dear God, Christine!" he groaned against her belly, tugging at her chemise with frustrated fingers. "Take this off before I tear it off."

While the idea was certainly appealing to her desire-filled mind, she decided to comply, and without a single hesitation, she lifted her chemise over her head, tossing it carelessly to the carpeted floor.

Erik forced a breath through clenched teeth as he studied her, edging ever closer on his knees against the layers of her petticoat. She stared back, amazed by the seriousness of his expression as he took his time to appreciate every detail with his eyes. She felt as if she were the model and he the painter, who was so completely scrutinizing before he went to work recreating her image.

"Say something," she commanded softly after long moments had gone by, and he had hardly moved, save to take in another strangled breath.

But he could not speak. He, who had all his life been such an eloquent articulator, was at a loss for words; they seemed nonsensical to his passion-driven mind. Instead, with the tentative touch of a man who was suddenly terrified, he moved both of his hands in a delicate path up her ribcage to her breasts. Eyeing her all the while as if asking permission with a glance, he cupped their weight in his hands, noting how she shuddered almost immediately. Half watching her and half engrossed in his actions, he shaped with his hands, and as his palms pressed over the hardened tips, he felt her gasp and flinch before arching further into his cool touch. Concentrating on her nipples, he stroked and manipulated with a musician's intricate touch, smiling to himself at the deep cries his caresses brought from her, unbridled, uninhibited, and no longer contained cries that to his ears were as beautiful as a symphony.

Wanting only to please her further, with a half smile still on his misshapen lips, he lifted himself higher on his knees and dared to take one of her breasts into his mouth as she gave a shout that resounded throughout the room.

"Erik!" she cried, arching up to his tempting mouth. His hand was still manipulating one of her breasts while his mouth devoured the other, his tongue encircling the tip with a gentle pressure that drove her mad with yearning. And when he pulled away for only a moment, switching the attention of his mouth from one breast to the other, she nearly screamed at him not to stop. Urged on by her passion, he became more fevered in his endeavors, gently nipping with his teeth as she writhed against him.

Erik wasn't sure he could endure much more, aching so deeply to take her. Reluctantly, with a final brushing of his lips over one breast's fullness, he stood up on shaking knees. Catching her with a hand fisted in her hair, he found her mouth in a savage kiss, fiercely possessing her lips, and to his surprise, as she kissed him back, her desperate hands were tugging at his shirt, fumbling with the buttons in her haste to find skin. Aiding in her plight, he impatiently tore at the seam of his shirt, not caring that the buttons flew everywhere, striking the carpet and various pieces of furniture, as they gave way.

Christine's eager hands shoved the torn remnants of his shirt from his shoulders until at last she could run her palms over the chilled flesh of his chest, but just as they began their path and silent exploration, she suddenly drew out of his kiss with confusion creasing her brow. As she regarded him and his naked flesh before her, she compassionately sighed, "Oh, my love, my love…."

Erik had no need to ask why the sadness had crept into her once passion-filled features, why tears were gathering in the corners of her eyes as she reached out trembling fingers to trace one of many scars, upraised and white, marring his flesh. There were dozens, creasing his sides and belly, and gently drawing out of his embrace, she circled him only to find that they marked his broad back as well, more so even. She did not need to ask to know that he was not born with these; no, these were manmade. It was nearly incomprehensible for her to fully realize just what he had endured, and yet how fortunate she was that he had survived it all, that it had not destroyed the passionate soul that she so adored.

Still lingering behind him, she moved close to press her lips against one of the longest and most visible of the scars as if somewhere in her mind, she hoped that her love could heal it.

Turning about to face her, he gently tilted her face up with a thumb beneath her chin so that she met his eye. "I don't regret any of it," he told her, his voice thick with passion as he brushed away tears that were making crystalline paths over her cheeks. "I would endure it all again if it meant that I would have you in my arms right now. You make it all seem worth it in the end."

She did not say a word, only met his lips as they came down to capture hers again in a desirous kiss that made her momentarily forget everything else. Under the fevered spell that he cast with just a touch, she returned to exploring his chest, the scars becoming just another part of him, another detail that made him her Erik, her angel.

Her fingers were so warm against his skin, branding him all the way to his soul until he knew that all he was belonged to her. When he felt her caresses becoming urgent once again, he swept her up into his arms and carried her to his bed, laying her gently atop the soft coverlet as if she were made of fine porcelain. Kneeling on the side of the bed, he reached for the waist of her petticoat, and holding his eye trustingly, she lifted her hips to allow him to draw both her petticoat and pantaloons off in one fluid movement.

"Oh," was the only sound that he could utter as he ran his gaze over her, but the adoration that beamed in his beautiful gaze stole her timidity. Like a lady's maid, he carefully drew off her slippers and finally her stockings so that she lay completely bared to him, not yet daring to allow his skin to fully touch hers.

Moving to sit at the foot of the bed, he trembled all over as he hesitantly lifted one of her feet into his hands, curling his fingers around the arch. With worshipping reverence, he pressed a humble kiss to the inside of her ankle, adoring the childlike curve of it in contrast with the womanly shape of her leg. With the lightest of touches, he brought the very tips of his fingers up the curve of her calf and her knee to her creamy thigh.

Christine couldn't breathe; the air would not pass her lips as she watched him, frozen in place. His gaze beseeched her and dared her to refuse, giving her an opportunity that she never took before he continued on. Tearing his eyes from hers to watch his hand, he allowed his fingertips to find the satiny smoothness of her inner thigh on a slow ascent, feeling her quiver and shudder as she instinctively parted her thighs for him. He gave a low groan when his fingertips grazed that most aching part of her, finding the delicious heat and wetness. She was so slick, so ready for him, and as he lightly stroked her soft folds, making her pant and gasp with need, he marveled over the blatant proof of her desire, that this beautiful woman, who he adored with every fiber of his being, actually wanted _him_.

"Erik!" she gasped out, thrashing her shoulders against the pillows of his bed, and he knew she could take little more. Reluctantly, he drew his fingers away and rose on shaky knees. Staring down at her flushed body all the while, he quickly discarded the rest of his clothes.

With hazy eyes, Christine observed his body. Her curiosity was unwavering, piqued even amidst her desire, and raising herself to her knees on the bed, her long curls falling in a cascade over her bare body, she edged nearer to him while he simply watched her, waiting to see what she would do. Brushing her hair out of her face and over her shoulder, she knelt higher so that she could find his lips with hers. As she seduced his mouth, her tongue daring this time to enter his lips, she let her hands explore, deftly trailing down his chest and his stomach to fully touch him. The instant that her hand closed over the male hardness of him, he moaned against her lips, grasping her by her hair with fisted hands. She was curious at the same time as she was intrigued by the smooth texture of him, moving her hand up and down the length of him.

Erik leaned his weight against her, hardly able to stand upright under her glorious ministrations. Her hand was so soft, her touches laced with innocence. He allowed her to continue until he knew he could stand no more, burning inside and out. Then gently, he pulled away and guided her to lie on the bed as he climbed onto the bed with her.

With deliberate slowness so that he could savour every sensation, he lowered his body atop hers, experiencing every inch of her smooth, warm skin against his. In a voice that was so husky with his need and yet in a tone so gentle, he bid, "Spread your legs for me…. Yes, just like that."

Positioning himself above her, he met her eyes with an unspoken apology and explained, "This may hurt." Erik stroked her cheek and her hair tenderly, hesitating. "I am loath to cause you any pain."

She knew in that moment that if she but said the word, he would cease no matter what the cost to him, and lifting herself slightly, she kissed him, begging in her kiss to continue. Keeping his lips locked on hers as if his kisses could steal her pain away, he slowly began to ease into her aching, wet body.

Christine was determined that no matter what pain there was, she would not let Erik see, but as she felt the hardness of him filling and stretching her, she could not keep a cry from escaping their joined lips, her hips digging into the mattress beneath her. He did not want to cause her pain, but when he felt the heat of her surrounding him, the tightness of her, he couldn't hold back, and with a murmured apology against her lips, he thrust into her in one fluid movement.

"Are you all right?" he asked hoarsely, a thin sheen of sweat coating his pale skin as he forced himself to remain unmoving within her.

Christine had her eyes screwed shut, but as the moments went by and she adjusted to the weight and size of him and grew accustomed to his invasion, she began to relax her tensed muscles, daring to open her eyes and meet his concerned stare. A hesitant smile gradually curved the corners of her mouth.

Still tentative, he lifted himself enough so that he could reach between their bodies and lightly stroke his fingers over her breast. The tip hardened in response, and she gave a little sigh of delight as he continued to touch her, gently at first but growing more impassioned as her desire grew again.

It was sheer torture to remain unmoving within her, but he was determined to make her forget the pain, to make her passion burn brighter yet. It was she who encouraged him, arching her hips, and that was all the urging he needed. Slowly at first, he began to move, meeting the motion of her hips and thrusting gently in and out.

The pain was forgotten as she relished the sensation of his hard body filling her, joining so deeply with her. She was lifting her hips to meet every one of his thrusts, her fingers clutching and clawing at his shoulders as she searched for some unknown fulfillment, something that she felt herself uncontrollably moving toward.

"Erik!" she cried out, writhing and arching as one more thrust sent her over the edge and brought pleasure that washed over her like a warm wave.

It was when he felt the contractions of her body in her fulfillment that he found his, driven there by the very image and sound of her. With a resonant groan, he shuddered from head to toe and found ecstasy within her content body.

Barely able to take a breath and still sheathed within her, he reached up trembling hands to brush back her tangled hair tenderly and rained adoring kisses over her chest, neck, jawline, the top of her shoulder, dozens of random kisses.

Smiling to herself, Christine savoured the feel of his weight crushing her into the mattress, his bare flesh against hers without any barriers. She felt warm all over, and even his usually chilled skin had seemed to soak up a bit of her internal heat. But as he lifted his head enough to meet her gaze, all of her frivolous, satiated thoughts evaporated.

"Erik," she called tenderly, disentangling one of her hands to reach up and brush a tear from his scarred cheek. "Are you all right, _ange_?"

He could not have contained his tears no matter how hard he tried, overcome with more emotion than he thought it possible to feel. "You are amazing, Christine, …amazing, incredible. I do not deserve you or your love or what we just shared."

"What we are still sharing, _ange_," she corrected him, shifting beneath him as if to remind him. "We are still joined; we are still one being, one heart, one soul. You may not feel that you deserve this, this moment right now, but I tell you that you do and a million more exactly like it."

Erik lingered there a breath longer, wanting to etch every sensation, every detail into his mind. Then he reluctantly climbed off of her and settled into the covers beside her as she immediately cuddled against him, burrowing her face to the still warm skin of his chest.

"I love you, Christine," he whispered softly as his fingers brushed up and down the length of her arm, knowing he could never tire of touching her. These simple caresses meant as much to him as what had just occurred…, more so even.

Yawning, she replied, already close to dozing off safe at his side as she was, "Rest now. Tomorrow is Christmas, you know, and it will be a day of happiness and love…." Her voice was drifting off, her eyes growing heavy.

When he felt her give in to the haven of sleep, he remained awake a bit longer to gaze down at her in silent adoration before allowing it to take him as well.


	11. Chapter 11

I'm sorry I haven't gotten this posted sooner; I blame the holidays and the children. Anyway, I drove myself crazy and wasn't sure how much editing I was going to do to this, but I decided to leave most of it alone. It's a very passionate story, and cutting it apart takes that away. I truly hope that you enjoy it as it is!

* * *

The next morning, Christine awoke alone in his bed; she had slept so soundly, utterly relaxed and content beside him, that she had not even felt him arise. With a secretive smile curving the corners of her lips, she climbed out of the warmth of the blankets and hunted for her discarded clothes. Rather than putting back on her under things and gown with all of the hooks and clasps, she instead grabbed one of his dress shirts from where it lay idly tossed across a chair and pulled it on, hugging herself once it came around her as if she was hugging him. Ah! It even smelled like him!

With a little jump in her step, she hurried to the mirror in his adjoining bath chamber, the only mirror that he allowed in the room, and surveyed her appearance. The shirt was big on her, falling to just above her knee with sleeves that came well past her fingertips, but she enjoyed the way she looked and felt in it. Pushing the sleeves above her wrists, she used her hands to smooth back her tangle of dark curls, so they were not entirely unruly. As she pulled the mass of locks back, she nearly gasped aloud. Revealed to her amused eyes was a rosebud shaped mark on the pale skin of her collarbone, obviously made in the heat of passion. Strangely enough, it pleased her, a visible mark of his claim of her, even if only temporary. _She was his…._

Giving up on her hair, she hastily left his room, seeking him out with an eagerness in her heart. She wished that she could know already what mood she would find him in. Would he be regretful for what had happened? Would he be in the same bitter frame of mind that he had been in when they had returned yesterday? Or would he feel changed as she did, a very different person inside and out, as if their joining had been some sort of transformation? Regretful or happy, she just prayed that he would not act indifferent or pretend that it had never happened. How could he? Just the memory of it alone brought her a warm tingle from head to toe and a secretive gleam to her eyes. He had to feel the same…, didn't he?

Her footsteps faltered with her thoughts, becoming hesitant, but a glow from the living room called as if in a welcome invitation that she could not deny. As she stepped through the doorway, her fists curling beneath the long cuffs of his shirt, she felt her heart leap in her chest and gave an incomprehensible cry of delight.

Erik had lit all of her candles on the tree, and sitting at the foot of it was a doll in a brocade gown with thick, dark curls as if it had been left there for her by the spirit of Christmas. She stumbled toward it, eager to have it in her arms, but halfway there, she changed her trek and went straight to Erik instead as he stood in the kitchen doorway, watching her with a half-smile on his unmasked face. He immediately opened his arms and pulled her close, placing a kiss on the top of her head.

"Merry Christmas, Christine," he breathed, closing his eyes to savour the familiar yet thrilling feel of her body pressed to his.

"Merry Christmas, _mon ange_," she replied, letting all of him surround her as she buried her face against the rough material of his suit jacket and breathed him in.

Erik glanced down with amusement at her chosen attire, delighted to see her in his shirt as if she was indeed a part of him. He remembered so vividly how it had been only that morning to awake with her warm body in his arms, how perfect it had felt, how the memories of the previous night had filled him with a sense of completion mixed with a longing to have her again and again. He knew that he would always feel starved for more when she wasn't lying in his embrace bared to his whims. How he adored her!

With a laugh, she suddenly slipped away from his hold and scurried to the tree, her hands lifting up the beautiful doll. Her fair skin was made of cold porcelain, her blue eyes gazing fixedly as Christine ran her fingers gently through dark curls and over the beading of her gown.

"She's so beautiful," Christine excitedly told Erik. "You know, when I was a little girl, all I ever wanted was a doll just like this with dark hair like mine and a pretty dress, but we could never afford such fine things. Papa bought me a rag doll one year for Christmas; it was the only doll I ever had, and I acted like she was exactly what I wanted so that he wouldn't be hurt. In my mind, I used to envision that the rag doll was the one I had always dreamed of, and it wasn't so terrible." Her eyes were distant with the reminiscent images, her fingers trailing over the doll's delicate cheek, but as she lifted her gaze to Erik, a smile replaced any lingering sadness.

"I saw her in a store window, and she made me think of you," he admitted.

Christine was beaming with happiness at the very idea as she playfully asked, "Does she have a name?"

"Not yet. You must choose one for her."

Holding the doll away, she studied the little porcelain face thoughtfully. "Hmm…. Molly." Shaking her head, she quickly corrected herself. "_Princess_ Molly."

"Oh, she's royalty?" Erik teased, and Christine met his eye with mock annoyance.

"Why, of course she's royalty! Can you not tell by the fairness of her complexion and the regal lift of her head?"

"Well, would the royal princess like to join us in our humble Christmas breakfast?"

Lifting her chin haughtily, Christine replied, "Why, yes, she would. Thank you for the invitation, dear sir."

"The doll gets to be a princess, but I am only a lowly sir. That hardly seems fair." Erik crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes feasting on the vision of her even as he taunted her.

"Well, all right then. You can be the king," Christine proclaimed. "And I shall be the queen." Her blue eyes lit with mischief. "The _Phantom_ Queen!"

Laughing, he gestured to the dining room with half of a bow. "The Phantom King and Queen's breakfast awaits."

"Thank you." Holding the doll in her arms, Christine straightened her back and lifted her head like a real lady of court as she flounced into the dining room with Erik following, chuckling softly and shaking his head with his amusement.

The Christmas breakfast Erik had prepared was exquisite. When they had both finished and were still sitting at the table, Erik with a cup of tea and Christine with a cup of coffee, she suddenly leapt to her feet in sudden excitement.

"I'll be right back," she explained and darted from the room as he stared after her in confusion. She returned half a second later, halting her running steps in the doorway with both of her arms behind her back and a little laugh falling free from her lips.

Erik stared at her, unable to speak, longing flashing in his beautiful eyes as he ran them over her for the hundredth time that morning so provocatively clad in his shirt. Forcing himself to focus on her elation instead, he stammered, "What…what is it?"

With slow steps, she approached, and as she reached his side, she drew forth what she was concealing behind her back. "Merry Christmas, Erik."

His gaze went from hers to the wrapped package she held and back again. "Christine, …what…what is this?"

"It's Christmas, Erik! And this is just a small token of my appreciation for your presence in my life. Here, take it; open it." She shook the present temptingly before him until he tentatively complied.

With hands that trembled slightly as they worked, he unwrapped the paper packaging, and a gasp of delighted surprise escaped him when he found the _Roméo et Juliette_ manuscript. As if afraid to touch it, he ran the very tips of his fingers over the yellowing title page. "This is…. But how did you…? This must have cost a small fortune."

Christine only gave an indifferent shrug, insisting instead, "So do you like it?"

"It's…it's wonderful," he breathed before meeting her eye. "Thank you so much."

"And now I am going to take Princess Molly with me for a royal bath and a change of attire, if you will excuse me." As she spoke, she delicately lifted the porcelain doll into her arms with a look of adoration. With doll in tow, she hurried back to Erik's side to press a quick kiss to his scars before rushing out the doorway, leaving him to stare tenderly after her.

* * *

The rest of their Christmas day was spent in enjoyable companionship. Christine had dressed in a lovely gown, cream and lace in the bodice with a rich burgundy, velvet skirt and a bow in the back. Her curls had been tied back with a matching burgundy ribbon, simple and elegant. The vision of her kept drawing Erik's attention and desire, and in an attempt to keep himself distracted, he busied himself with preparing the feast that they would enjoy. When she had offered to help, he had insisted against it and shooed her from the kitchen, needing some space to exist between them. He wanted her; he ached for her even more so now as every vivid memory erupted mercilessly in his mind and stole sense from his grasp, but he was determined to keep a restraint on himself at least for now.

After supper had been cooked and was only waiting to be served, he sought her out and found her in the living room curled contently on the couch simply staring at the lit Christmas tree as though mesmerized by its luminescent glow.

"What are you thinking?" he asked, gently breaking into her trance.

Christine smiled up at him. "I'm happy. Being here with you is like some wonderful dream that I never want to end."

"I feel the same," he revealed softly as he caught her hand in his and drew her to her feet. "I have something for you."

One dark brow rose inquisitively. "What?"

From within his jacket pocket, he withdrew a small velvet box, offering it to her silently and watching her accept it with hesitant fingers.

"You've given me so much already, Erik."

He shook his head as her fingers pried it open, and explained, "I know it is not as gaudy as the Vicomte's gift, but it reminded me of you."

"Oh, Erik," she breathed, her fingertips touching the cool stones. Inside the velvet box was a necklace, the very opposite of the Vicomte's choice for her. Erik's choice was a thin, gold chain from which dangled a simple setting of rubies and a diamond. It surprised her that Erik knew her so well to pick something that she would have chosen herself.

"Do you like it?" he asked hopefully. "If you don't, I can exchange it. I can very much afford a dozen of the sort the Vicomte chose for you if you would rather."

"Oh no!" she insisted with a firm, resolved shake of her head. "This is perfect! I adore it! It's exactly…me!" With trembling fingers, she disentangled the necklace from the trappings of the box, and asked sweetly, "Will you help me?"

Erik took the thin chain as she turned her back to him. He had never performed a task like this and was strangely nervous as he unhooked the clasp and hesitantly placed it around her neck.

"There you are," he told her as the pendant fell into place, and as she turned back to face him, he admired the deep redness of the jewels against her creamy skin, reaching out to lightly graze their surface. "So beautiful…. It suits you well."

Christine caught his hand between both of hers, clasping it to her chest as she lifted herself up on tiptoe to kiss him gently, a simple kiss that only barely hinted at the flames that had burned in a fiery inferno the night before. Drawing back again, she met his passion-filled eyes and stammered softly beneath a faint blush, "Thank you…for the necklace."

He nodded back, and halfheartedly pulled away, explaining, "Supper is ready."

"Oh yes, supper…." Her blush only brightened, and she ducked her head with a hint of shyness. "I almost forgot. You distract me into thinking of other things…."

With a slightly mischievous grin that was laced in a new sense of confidence, he promised, "Oh, I intend to fully distract you later and indulge every one of the thoughts in your head."

She nodded even as the breath fled her so that she had to whisper back, "Later…. Supper first." And it was almost reluctant on both of their parts that they strode into the dining room with a constant shared stare and memories flashing between.

After dinner, Erik insisted that he would clean up and pushed her out of the kitchen, and so she wandered back to the living room and plopped down on the carpeted floor, leaning back on her elbows and gazing admiringly up at the tree again. The candles were beginning to fade out, almost spent, and their dim glow created shadows on the walls, dancing in constant motion.

That was where Erik found her a little later, and as he lingered in the doorway, he watched her without her notice. All he could think was that she was so beautiful, lying within the circle of light from the tree, so peaceful and tempting as he traced the lines and curves of her body with his eyes, the swell of her breasts beneath the material of her bodice, the gentle arching of her hips before layers of her skirts. Bringing his hungry gaze back up again, he trailed the smooth column of her throat to the delicate features of her face, the fine cheekbones, the line of her jaw, the fullness of those pink lips that drove him half mad with yearning. Already, those images alone were making him throb and ache until he knew that he had to have her.

On silent feet, Erik crept closer, and as she lifted her dreamy gaze to the blatant longing in his, he lowered himself to the floor, joining her in the dim circle of light as if he was equally a part of it.

Christine knew what he wanted, and skin that was being warmed by the heat of the candle flames took on a layer of goosebumps that tingled with anticipation. As he crawled up the length of her body, she tilted her face up invitingly, awaiting his kiss, and when he finally captured her lips, she gave a muffled cry of delight at the familiar, misshapen mouth that so ravenously devoured hers, melting immediately to him.

Kissing her fiercely, he urged her back off her elbows to lie on the carpet, his arms weaving around her soft body even as his tongue slipped between her lips, delving deeper, seducing hers. He was stretched out beside her on the carpet, leaning over her, but as he continued with kisses that could not be denied, she was eagerly arching against him.

Yanking his lips away, he hoarsely whispered, so close that she could feel his breath play over her features, "What sort of spell is it that you have on me? I only have to look at you, and I ache so badly."

Christine was pressing kisses to his face, her hands already pushing his jacket off his shoulders. He discarded it for her, but when she then reached for the buttons of his shirt, he captured her hands and held tight.

"Ah, ah," he scolded, kissing her captive knuckles before he released them, "not yet. It is my turn first."

Erik was already groping at the clasps of her gown, muttering inaudible curses when it took all of his efforts to finally get them unhooked. As she watched him with trusting, anticipating eyes, he stripped her of her gown and her petticoats with hardly more than a thought, followed by her corset, hungrily regarding every inch of creamy skin revealed to him. When she lay before him on the carpeted floor in only her chemise and pantaloons, he ran eager fingers across her collarbone, over the swells of her concealed breasts, and lower still to the waistband of her pantaloons, watching as her eyes grew darker and heavier with desire.

"Erik," she whispered with a note of hesitancy when his fingers found their way into her waistband, splaying over her smooth stomach before traveling lower. She squirmed against his probing hand, but his intentions were not deterred, his fingertips grazing her before slipping inside to find her wetness with a deep, guttural moan of his own need. Her silken warmth surrounded his fingers, and with growing urgency, he stroked the length of her, encouraged by her cries and whimpers and the way that her body was arching up to meet his exploring hand. Eager for more and an even stronger response, he slid down the length of her partially-clad body, pausing only briefly to encircle one of her breasts with his mouth, wetting the silk fabric of her chemise. Continuing lower, he was using his free hand to push her pantaloons down her slender hips and off of her body.

Christine tried to pull away with a timid blush, pushing at his shoulders with urgent hands and making little utterances of protest, lacking the syllables of full words, but he kept an unyielding hold on her with the weight of his body over her bare legs, leaving her with no choice but to acquiesce.

"I mean to see and taste all of you," he whispered hoarsely as he met her wide eyes, adding with a taunting challenge, "with or without your consent."

Erik knew that he would have no further arguments, her body pliant and tentatively obedient beneath his. And though lingering hesitations played in blue eyes, he shifted his attention to the ministrations of his fingers on her eager, willing body. Watching with avid curiosity and fascination, he carefully parted the folds so that he could admire this most sacred part of her body. For him, a man who had seen some of the greatest sights and marvels of the world, who bore the eye of a composer, of an architect, of a genius, the image before him now was something altogether more amazing, more entrancing, more emotionally stirring than anything else. This was sacred and special; this was Christine willingly baring all of herself to him. With a slight trepidation in his every movement, he leaned in closer and closer until he could press his lips to her wetness.

Christine gave a shudder down the entire length of her body, and a cry tore from her that was part desire and part protest. She had to look away, craning her head back to dig against the soft carpet as her body arched both away and nearer to his kiss. Staring up at the ceiling with hazy, unclear eyes, her mind was focused on every movement of his lips and the deliberately teasing strokes of his tongue as he tasted her.

Dizziness and need were overwhelming until she felt as if she was weightlessly floating upward. Higher and higher she went as awareness evaded her. One more assaulting stroke of his tongue, and she felt herself falling from that steep, almost unreachable peak with a cry. The pleasure was so intense that for a moment she knew nothing else, awareness fading from her grasp. It took long minutes and flustered breaths for reality to begin to return in flimsy streaks through a half-dazed mind.

Erik had felt her release, and he knew that he could barely hold back any longer. Pressing an adoring kiss to the flawless skin of her inner thigh, he lifted himself away and hastily discarded his clothing as she watched with contented eyes, running intangible caresses up and down the details of his body. Once bare, he gently lowered himself atop her, burning with every inch of skin that touched.

"You taste like the richest, sweetest honey on my lips, all over my tongue, a more delicious flavor than I've ever known before," he hoarsely whispered against her ear, making her shiver and arch closer to him.

She had expected there to be pain at first again like the last time, but as he gently moved inside of her, all she felt was a sense of fullness and his weight deliciously crushing her into the carpet. Her body had still been experiencing aftershocks of her powerful climax, and with him now so deeply embedded within her, she could feel herself throb around him and gradually succumb to waves of returned passion.

Erik kept still until he was certain she was all right, and when she began to arch her hips with anticipation, he followed her lead and started to move. He wasn't as gentle with her as he had been the night before, urged into a near frenzy as she met his every motion, pressing her lips against his shoulder as passion-filled cries escaped her. To his satisfied surprise as he rocked his hips against hers and plunged so deeply, he felt the desire rising again within her until with a few more thrusts, she was exploding once again all around him with a shout that brought him with her over the edge of passion's abyss. With a moan from that angel's voice, he found a pleasure so profound that his entire frame quivered even after his senses returned.

"Oh, Christine," he whispered and found her lips in a fervent kiss, his hands smoothing back loose pieces of dark hair from her brow.

In the meager gap of space between seeking lips, she breathed, "You are so deep within me right now, Erik, as if we are joined at our cores. It's as if we've always been two halves of a whole, and now we are just one being, one heart and soul. Everything before this moment, all the pain and agony and the loneliness, those things are shared between us, and they can't exist anymore because love takes them away."

Caressing her face between his hands, he stared at her in rapt adoration. "I love you, Christine, and I believe every word you just said. You _are_ the other half of me, and I will not be parted from you ever again…no matter what. I can't bear to lose you, heart of my heart, soul of my soul. You are the reason I exist."

"And you are mine," she agreed with paralleled fervor.

The tenderness in his gaze was so unending and utterly unfathomable. "Merry Christmas, Christine."

"Merry Christmas, Erik. I cannot remember one that I've spent so happy."

"_You_ have given me Christmas," he told her. "And I am so fortunate, more fortunate than I should be, because I have you in my home and my life, allowing me to make love to you. I hardly deserve such blessings."

"If you don't deserve them, then I must not either since I want them so badly. And as to my 'allowing' you to make love to me, may I remind you that I received equal…or even more enjoyment than you did?"

"So you enjoyed my endeavors?" he asked with a chuckle, though he already had no doubt of the answer. "If you would like to play coy and deny it, I can remind you that I have very vivid memories of your body aflame from my hands and my mouth, of the taste of you on my tongue."

Her cheeks grew pink, but the timidity that threatened was kept at bay by the desirous tone of his voice and the expression in his eyes. Shyness and any shred of modesty that she still possessed were quickly replaced with her own awakening of the passion in her veins that seemed to burn absurdly bright and strong for Erik alone.

"Yes," she answered in a thick whisper, "I enjoyed what you were doing…very much."

Erik nodded with approval. "As did I…. To feel you so hot, …so wet against my mouth was most exquisite. I am eager to do that again…." He wanted to request another attempt before the night was out, but he noted with concern the weariness in her eyes. With an undeniable reluctance, he disentangled from her, rising to his feet on knees that were barely holding his weight. After taking a moment to draw his pants over his desirous body before she could glimpse his wanting, he reached for her and swept her into his arms.

"Where are we going?" she asked, and he caught the edge of the sleepiness in her voice.

"I am taking you to bed. You need to rest; you return to your grueling rehearsals tomorrow, and Reyer might sever a blood vessel if you are not in top voice."

"No, no," she was protesting in his embrace, shaking her head against his shoulder weakly. "Not my bed, …not my bed."

"Of course not," he agreed with a smile of adoration. "If you think that I will permit you to sleep anywhere but in my arms, you are gravely mistaken." He brought his dozing angel into his room and laid her delicately upon the covers as he told her, "I shall return presently."

With a final caress to her cheek, Erik left her to rest, hurrying to extinguish any remaining lit candles on the tree and tidying the living room. In spite of the silliness of such a gesture, his eyes drifted to the spot where they had lain and made love as if a new, sacred aura was held there with a slight smile on his misshapen lips before he returned to his room.

Taking great care with his every movement, Erik slipped beneath the covers of his bed and inched closer and closer until at last, he was curled behind her sleeping form. As if sensing his nearness, she came awake enough to glance drowsily over her shoulder and scoot the remainder of the way to him. Sighing softly as she cuddled close to him, she fell asleep again with a smile curving the corners of her lips, and mirroring her expression, he happily followed her lead.


	12. Chapter 12

It was agony to abandon Erik's home the next morning and return to rehearsal in her own world; it was quite clear to Christine that leaving was becoming impossible, and it was only Erik's adamant promise that he would come for her as soon as rehearsal ended that gave her the strength she required to go.

Despite the fact that the show was starting to come together quite well, Reyer dragged out every detail of their rehearsal. To Christine's utter relief, Raoul was not in attendance, but a messenger delivered a telegram solely to her from the Vicomte to report that he was vacationing with his family in London and would return in a few days. Dear Lord, if Raoul felt compelled to keep her informed of his whereabouts, then he certainly believed that they were on the verge of an intimate commitment to each other. Even though she was loath to break his heart, she knew that at their next meeting, she would have to do just that. But with his convenient absence, that was not something she had to consider now; no, now she could simply revel in thoughts of Erik, every memory of the past days so fresh on her mind and bringing her a smile and a blush. She hardly believed she'd be able to endure the entire day before she could be in his presence again. Her glorious angel…, her love….

Now that the Christmas holiday was over, the buzz around the opera house was focused solely on the upcoming Masquerade Ball that would ring in the New Year. It was a New Year's Eve tradition, and everyone in the cast was busy discussing their costumes at every possible moment.

"Christine!" Meg called, darting through the other ballerinas. Catching Christine's arm, she dragged her out of the earshot of any eavesdroppers. "There is a rumor that the Vicomte is taking you to the ball."

"What?" Christine demanded in a gasp. "Raoul mentioned it weeks ago, but I never consented to such a thing and he never brought it up again. Who is spreading such a rumor?"

"Everyone is saying so; some of the girls in the chorus say that the Vicomte himself told them before he left for his trip." Meg lowered her voice to a whisper as she furtively glanced about for any potential observers. "So will you go with him then?"

Christine could only imagine how enraged Erik would be over such a situation, and shaking her head, she insisted, "I can't; you know, I can't. I'm in love with someone else. It wouldn't be fair to either of them if I went with Raoul."

An immediate smile lit Meg's lips as she excitedly asked, "Will you bring your teacher then, Christine? Will he be your escort to the ball?"

"I…I don't know," she stuttered, her mind reeling with the very idea.

Any more conversation was cut off abruptly as Christine heard her cue onstage, but even as she sang her role and acted the part, behind the façade, she was pondering Meg's words. Take Erik to the ball…. Well, why not? It was a Masquerade, after all, the only place a mask was the suitable and favored attire. He would refuse at first, she had little doubt of that, but he had been becoming brave lately, venturing out into society at her side. Surely, she could get him to agree.

That evening as he led the way into his home, she knew that she would ask and not give up asking until he conceded. Erik had said very little on their journey, but the expression in his eyes told her with unarguable certainty that he was overjoyed with her presence, as if he lacked the words to tell her just how much it meant to him.

Christine bided her time, waiting through her lesson and until they were seated in the dining room having a late supper to broach the subject of the ball.

"Erik?" she called tentatively, picking at the food on her plate.

"Yes, Christine?" He had already known something was on her mind, watching her with his intuitive, studious eyes every chance he had been given.

"At rehearsal this afternoon, everyone was quite busy talking about the Masquerade Ball; you know, the New Year's celebration. It is only five days away, and everyone is preparing their costumes and such; it is the event of the season."

Sitting back in his chair, Erik crossed his arms over his chest and lifted one brow inquisitively; without the mask to cover his scarred face, it was much easier for Christine to decipher his emotions, and thus far, he already didn't seem accepting. "Yes, I know all about the ball, an excuse for genteel society to parade around gaily in masks; if only I had such an amusing excuse."

The bitterness in his tone almost kept her from her request, almost stole the words away, …almost…. "Well, you know you could share in that excuse."

"What is it that you are asking of me, Christine?" he demanded impatiently.

"I…I was wondering if you would be my escort…and take me to the ball."

"Oh," was all he could say at first, forcing himself to meditate on her request when his impulse was to flatly refuse without a thought.

Sitting back in her own chair and mimicking his posture, she dared to taunt, "If you won't take me, then I may have to consider Raoul's offer."

"Raoul's offer?" He was immediately seething at simply the suggestion, but he forced his temper to remain in check and eyed her carefully.

"Actually," she replied honestly, "he's already been telling people that he is escorting me in spite of the fact that I haven't had the chance to refuse him yet."

"Has he indeed?" Erik was biting on the inside of his lip, a half second away from erupting into a rage. How dare that damn pompous Vicomte? Christine was not his, and how dare he assume otherwise? _No one_ else could touch her! Swallowing hard against his urge to lash out, it suddenly dawned on him what Christine was trying to do, and with a silent scoff, he refused to take her bait. Abruptly transforming his jealous demeanor, he instead replied with complacent calmness, "You know that I do not enjoy social gatherings or customs; I avoid any such situations."

"Yes, I know, but you said with me at your side, you could face anything," she insisted back adamantly.

"I did, but I hardly meant balls with the very people who I spend my waking hours tormenting as the opera ghost."

"But they won't know who you are; everyone will be masked. You'll be the same as every other man in the room." Pausing, she suddenly leaned in his direction from her seat and covered his arm with her hand, curling her fingers in the thick material of his suit jacket. "Please, Erik, I want everyone to see how happy we are, and more than that, I want to dance with you."

He could not deny that he reveled in her admission, but he fought to remain obstinate on the subject. "We could dance here or anywhere else you like without a throng of people around us, watching us."

"But I _want_ to be in a crowd of people, looking at you as if you are the only man in the room and feel your arms around me with the orchestra playing so beautifully. I want everyone to see that I am entirely yours and that you are entirely mine."

That concept was appealing to Erik; he would give her credit for playing on the very thing he wanted most of all. They would see him with Christine, see the love and adoration in her eyes for him alone; even her damn Vicomte would be sick with his jealousy, yearning to be in his place for a change. "Mine…," he breathed more to himself before he insisted unarguably to her, "You must tell the Vicomte that you already have an escort then."

Christine beamed with a broad smile at her victory. "Of course. Oh, Erik, we will have such a wonderful time, and every couple there will envy us."

"No, they will envy me when they see me holding the most beautiful woman in the room in my arms."

"As always, you are far too sweet and too generous to me, _ange_," she told him, her grin taking on a new impetus, and rising to her feet with the flare of longing in her eyes and every movement, she climbed atop his lap without hesitation, fitting her legs to either side of his waist.

Erik immediately felt himself hardening with desire at her provocative gesture. If this was always her method of showing gratitude, he had a distinct feeling that he would find himself always eager to agree to her every request.

"What are you doing?" he asked lightly, even though the telltale hoarseness already tainting his voice revealed his wanting.

With a playful smile tingeing her lips, she leaned in to press feverish kisses down his throat, satisfied with his sharp inhalation. "Is it sacrilegious to seduce an angel?"

Erik was arching against her, eager to be rid of her layers of obtrusive clothing, as he replied, "Not if the angel is aching. Then you are only being merciful."

"Indeed." Her nimble fingers were sliding beneath the collar of his shirt to find his skin. "Angels aren't supposed to know such carnal desires."

"You forget that I am a fallen angel," he replied, stiffening in his place with her every endeavor.

"All right, fallen, but an angel still…." Lightening the intensity of the mood, she grinned bright and quickly insisted, "And you have committed to taking me to the ball."

Erik sighed with his concession. How impossible it was to argue any point with her so provocatively placed! "Yes, but you must first get rid of the Vicomte or I shall be the one to do it myself, and I cannot promise that I will play fairly." Cupping her cheek possessively in his palm, he insisted resolutely, "You are _mine_, Christine, _mine_! I will not allow him to lust after you so blatantly and pursue you with his gaudy trinkets. And if I must, I will rectify the situation and take care of him myself."

Christine's jovial manner faltered. "Please, Erik, let me take care of this on my own. Raoul is my childhood friend, so the situation is a bit more delicate than just an unrequited suitor. I cannot dismiss him like a stranger."

"But you will be rid of him just the same either by your methods or my devices."

His 'devices' ignited her immediate suspicion. She trusted Erik; she truly did, but his past was so tainted with crime and murder that it made her very wary for Raoul's safety. She did not want Raoul, but she did not want him dead either.

"I will take care of it," she repeated unwaveringly. "When Raoul returns from London in three days, I will return his necklace and tell him that I can't possibly attend the ball with him because I am taking my lover."

Her teasing nature had reappeared, her sweet smile affecting his mood as well, and with a shake of his head, he played her game. "Lover may not be the term you wish to use to the Vicomte unless you want him to chase me down in the name of your honor and virtue."

"What virtue?" Christine raised dark brows, taunting him mischievously. "The Phantom of the Opera stole my virtue."

"Did he?"

"I didn't say that this robbery was uninvited or unwelcome. In fact, if I remember correctly, I even begged him to take my virtue, and as a gentleman, he could not dare refuse me."

Erik groaned, the nearness of her affecting him potently with fire that raced every limb. "You are going to be the death of me, you and your sensual body. Dear Lord, Christine, I want you!"

Grinning enticingly with innocently raised brows, she replied, "Oh? And won't you simply take what it is you want? You are the Phantom of the Opera after all. I was told that you wait for no one to stake your claim and you show no mercy in doing so."

"I have heard similar rumors. Perhaps I shall make good on my irrefutable reputation and take you."

"Please do!" She was running her hands down the length of his clothed chest, impatient to rid him of any barrier between skin.

With a feral growl, Erik leapt to his feet, sweeping her up into his arms, and capturing her lips in his, he kissed her hard, thrilled when she met him with equaled desire before carrying her to bed. It wasn't until morning's light grazed the earth above that he allowed her to leave it, and even then, it was with great reluctance.

* * *

On the day that Raoul was supposed to return, Christine was dreading having to face him. It had to be done. There was no arguing that fact, but the idea of breaking his heart was detestable.

The cast had just returned from lunch when she caught a glimpse of the Vicomte entering the theatre and taking his usual seat in the back to watch. She felt her heart drop with a suddenly heavy weight in her chest and cowered into the protection of the wings where he could not see her as the scene on the stage began its run.

Christine could feel Erik's eyes on her almost immediately from some unknown location, and she smiled to herself in spite of the unpleasantness of her current situation and its inevitable resolve. The past days she had spent with him had been like some sort of an exquisite dream that she never wanted to end, a dream in which Raoul and the rest of humanity no longer existed. During the days, she had gone to rehearsals as she usually did, and she played the role of Christine Daaé, the opera singer and aspiring diva. Then when rehearsal ended, she escaped into Erik's world with him and the characters and the faces that she wore fell away, and she was only herself with her heart and soul held out so vulnerably before her to Erik, who never destroyed them, only wrapped them securely with his own. There in his home in the depths of the earth, he made love to her and cherished her so fully that it felt as if no other woman in the world had existed before her, that she was the first and the only ever created. And in the midst of desire's consumption, he whispered such profound devotions, such adoration in breathy syllables between delicate kisses, every one being memorized by her inner ear to be recalled at her whim.

The memory of the previous nights alone brought a flustered beat to her heart and an eager ache to her body as she lingered in the wings, half lost to a daydream. It was incredible how she could never seem to get enough of him, how she could find fulfillment and yet in the next instant, want him all over again, how she did not feel contented with existing unless she was touching him in some way. _So this was what love felt like…._ The secretive grin glowed brighter on her lips.

"Ah, the smile of a woman in love."

Christine snapped out of her thoughts at Meg's words; it was as if the little ballerina had read her mind. "Am I truly so obvious?"

Meg laughed lightly. "Your smile gives you away. I'm not entirely certain that I should break your enviable happiness and tell you that the Vicomte is in the audience."

Sighing desolately, Christine replied, "I know; I saw him come in. I have to break his heart today, and I am loath to do so."

"It will be all right, Christine. It's better that you do it now rather than let him hang onto a hope."

Christine was silent and pensive for a long moment before she raised pleading eyes to her friend. "Will you approach him with me?"

"The Vicomte?" Meg exclaimed, shaking her head resolutely from side to side.

"Yes, please, Meg, please. If you are with me, then he will be disinclined to make a scene and beg me to reconsider. You know how dramatic Raoul can be at times, practically as good as any of our own stage actors. If you are there, he will have to act respectable, at least."

Meg considered the request, but the utter desperation in her friend's eyes had already won her over in spite of her better judgment. "All right, all right, but if he starts to cry, I _refuse_ to stay."

"Oh, thank you!" Christine hugged Meg gratefully. It might have been a coward's way to handle things, but she would gladly be a coward if she did not have to see Raoul's pain so blatantly on display before her.

"Christine, your cue!" Meg gave her a light shove toward the stage, and Christine scurried out of the wing, hoping Reyer did not notice her lackluster portrayal of character upon her entrance.

Giving her opening lines of recitative, Christine dared risk a look in Raoul's direction, and immediately, she regretted her actions. Raoul's eyes were riveted to her even as the main action of the scene was being played out between Carlotta and Piangi center stage, and he bore a look that was a mixture of affection and longing. Feigning apathy if only to keep herself in character, she continued on with the scene, pretending that she was unaware of the intense gazes of both men who loved her only ever upon her.

* * *

Act IV was being performed on the stage, and with relief that she was not in the entire act, Christine slipped away to her dressing room. This would be the last section rehearsed today, and she knew with certainty that the Vicomte would be awaiting her once Reyer dismissed the cast. Her time on the stage had been exhausting, maintaining character nearly impossible and unbearable considering the circumstances, and she was greatly in need of a few minutes' reprieve.

Fighting her way through a hallway crowded with dancers stretching and cast members being fitted by seamstresses, she arrived at her dressing room and hurriedly entered, closing herself within its sanctuary. With a sigh, she leaned back against the wooden doorframe, suddenly grateful to be away from the chaos and the noise so she could clear her addled mind.

"I didn't like the way he was looking at you."

Christine jumped with surprise at that voice, the words spoken so bitterly and harshly, and before her eyes, her full length mirror parted to reveal his dark, masked figure within its threshold, staring coldly and fixedly at her.

Entering with grace and the new confidence that loving her had bestowed on him, Erik kept his pace deliberately slow and did not close the gap between them, keeping to the opposite side of the room. "He wanted you, desired you as if it was his right to do so, as if he could have simply taken you wherever and whenever he wished."

"The same way you are looking at me now," she concluded with an edge of a taunt as her own challenge.

He ignored her playfulness. "I _cannot_ tolerate his eyes on you, the way he seems to be undressing you with a look, fantasizing about making love to you." He spat the words with abysmal disgust as if they were blasphemous curses. With the inferno of his temper in his eyes, he stated in unarguable finality, "You are _mine_, Christine, only _mine_ for all of eternity."

She kept her expression passive, an actor's façade, but her eyes were trailing over the vision of him, the pristine elegance, the poised grace, the utter mystique, the masculinity. In her mind were flashes of his bare flesh, of the features of his body, and she felt a warm pulling in the core of her, a liquid heat stretching out through her veins.

Approaching him with calculated movements, she softly bid, "Yours, am I? Then show me."

Erik's anger immediately faded into desire at the seduction she was posing. His old self, the unloved, murdering monster of a man, had wanted her to be afraid, to cower in his shadow, if only to get her to do what he wanted and shun the damn Vicomte, but the rest of him was beginning to see that to love her and have her love him in return, he could not control her with fear, could not control her at all. _Control her!_ At the present moment, it was _she_ controlling _him_ with the subtle sway of her hips as she closed the distance between them and that revealing flicker of passion in her beautiful eyes.

"Christine," he whispered hungrily, and the instant she was within reaching distance, he grabbed her upper arms and yanked her against his hardened body, arching the telltale proof of his need against her. Let her feel the power she possessed in her tiny hands! In her every womanly gesture!

Even in his unyielding grip, her fingers extended to that mask and drew it away, revealing his contorted features as she stared with the same sense of wonder as if she had uncovered the unearthly beautiful face of an angel instead. He was momentarily struck with amazement as he always was when she gazed at him in such a way. She made him feel beautiful.

Letting the desire take over, he bent to take her lips in a claiming kiss as if his mouth alone could brand her with his mark. His tongue thrust between her lips, licking and teasing as she melted against him, molding her body into his. It was always like this, so fervent, so desperate, as if they required this kiss, this moment, to continue living.

As his hands released her arms and went for her skirts, beginning to gather them up in urgent fists, she tore her lips from his and protested, "No, wait, we can't do this now."

Erik did not stop his actions, still tugging her skirts upward. "You'd be lying if you said you wanted me to stop."

"There are people just outside in the hallway, and the door isn't even locked!" Even though she was attempting to push his hands away, her efforts were futile; he had already made up his mind.

"And? Let them come in; I don't much give a damn. Let them see you being claimed by the opera ghost, rapt in ecstasy for him." As she again tried to free herself, he chuckled lowly and hoarsely said, "Struggle if you like. I know how you enjoy it rough almost as much as you enjoy it tender."

"Erik," she warned, but as he lowered his mouth to the sensitive crease of her neck, gently sucking, she felt her rationality give way and abandon her.

"Yes, Christine," he whispered near her ear, making a shudder rack her, "let them all see the darkness within you, the passion. Let them see that you are not a child, but a beautiful, sensual woman." He had released her skirts and instead found the clasps of her gown, quickly unfastening and shoving material from her body.

Eager now and under desire's spell, her own hands discarded his jacket and began to work on the buttons of his shirt while his lips still devoured the sensitive skin of her throat. Only moments more, and articles of clothing were scattered haphazardly on the floor around them. Running his ravenous eyes up and down the length of her, he made her turn around in his arms, guiding her about so that her back was to him.

The hint of a smile was curving her awaiting lips, but it was lost to a gasp that tore from her lungs when she felt the hot, smooth shaft of him pressing against her back. With careful expertise, he entered her as she fought to contain her cry of elated desire, arching fervently back against him. It was so enticingly passionate, and as he began to move within her, she was mimicking the motions and meeting his every thrust.

Erik's hand traveled up the gentle curve of her hip, over her ribcage, and to her breast, cupping and manipulating it in his palm. Hovering with his lips just beside her ear, his breath tickling the sensitive flesh there, he hoarsely told her, "You are _mine_, Christine; you were made for me, to be mine, and that damn Vicomte will not have you. You cannot yet be stalling and wary to break his heart when I have you this way, when you are being impaled by _me_, when you are being driven mad by desire for _me_."

She wanted to reply, to assure him and his forever-untrusting nature that she was indeed his and would never belong to another, but the desire was too intense, and words were stolen. He knew exactly how to touch her, exactly how to build the need within her until she believed she could not bear anymore, and then, at precisely that moment, he gave her release, caressing her to fulfillment and an ecstasy so powerful that her entire body quivered and collapsed against his. Only when her desire was spent did he thrust so deeply, moving roughly as he himself neared his peak.

Erik burrowed his misshapen mouth against the crease of her neck and shoulder, crying out against her flesh as he found his pleasure. Shivering all over as he attempted to catch his breath, he laid his scarred cheek just below the nape of her neck and willed himself to memorize the feel of her, the scent of her, his arms wrapping about her waist to clutch her unyieldingly.

Christine smiled to herself, setting her hands atop his arms. "Erik," she called softly and hesitantly over her shoulder, "you know that I love you, …don't you? You know that I have no desire for Raoul like this, that I want to be with you…?"

Instead of answering, he released her from his hold and turned away, reaching for his clothes. What could he say? He knew what answer she wanted, but he was uncertain if he could give it and not be lying.

Christine turned to look at him, but the spell of the moment was shattered. While her heart begged her to reach out to him, she denied it and began to dress, drawing on her discarded clothing with a furrowed brow, chilled where he had been making her warm.

When she was finished with the last clasp, she smoothed disheveled curls and slowly turned to face her angel, noting that he had been watching her with a sadness in his eyes behind the boundary of his mask. Studying him silently for a long moment, she marveled at how the very aura of him seemed to envelop every inch of her dressing room, more powerful than the man himself. It radiated off of him, his essence, …his soul, and it reminded her just how easily she had succumbed to his enchantment months before, how simple it had been to be enshrouded by his trance.

In a tremulous voice, she declared, "You said it yourself: I belong to you, and if the intimacies we have shared over the past week, every word, every moment together, if none of those things have proven it to you, then I don't know what will." Slowly, she walked to her dressing table and lifted up the velvet box that held Raoul's gift within. "Now I am going to return this to the Vicomte; if you would like to watch, then I invite you to do so, but afterward, I expect you to meet me here and take me home with you. Does that sound reasonable?"

He nodded without a word, but she saw the glow of hope in his eyes…. Was it a hope that she spoke true? …Did he truly think she had spent the past week lying, biding her time until Raoul returned and she could run off with him?…. Of course. It was the easier truth to accept.

Clasping the jewelry box in her hands, Christine gave him one more assuring look before reluctantly leaving him there alone.

As soon as she closed the door behind herself, she saw Meg scurrying down the hallway. "Christine! I was just coming to look for you! Reyer ended rehearsal, and the Vicomte is asking about you. I told him that I would find you." The little ballerina matched Christine's steps as they headed back toward the stage.

"I was…getting his Christmas present; I need to return it to him. It would hardly be acceptable to keep it under the circumstances."

Meg's green eyes lit with excitement. "Oh! May I see it, Christine? Just one look? I want to see the sort of gift a Vicomte purchases for his beloved."

Stopping mid-step, Christine conceded and opened the cover of the box. The ballerina gasped, wide-eyed, as she dared to reach out and touch one of the stones with a finger.

"I…I've never seen anything like this!" Meg exclaimed, half-dazed by the flashing jewels. "Well, I have, but never _real_! Look how they sparkle and shine!…"

Christine was unimpressed, her dazzled reaction having worn off with her first glimpse of them. "Yes," she replied unenthusiastically, "they're lovely, but they're not really my taste." The light suddenly returned to her eyes as, keeping her voice low so no one would overhear, she drew the necklace Erik had given her out from beneath the collar of her gown. Since he had put it around her neck that Christmas night, she had rarely ever taken it off. Holding it out now for Meg to see, she revealed, "Erik gave me this."

"Oh, Christine!" Meg lightly touched the delicate stones. "Erik? Your teacher?"

Christine nodded, unable to hide the delight or conceal her amorous affection for him. "Yes, it is much more my taste."

Nodding in agreement, Meg replied, "Exactly your taste. Lord, Christine, but you are lucky indeed! To be so blissfully in love as you are! I wish such a thing would happen to me!"

"It will, Meg. You'll see. It comes when and where you least expect it to."

"Was that how it was with Erik?" the little ballerina dared to ask with her unwavering grin.

"Exactly like that." A memory of the first moment, the first sounds articulated from the golden cords of an angel, flashed in her mind. Even then, she had loved him as a heavenly being, an unearthly entity that she had actually prayed at one time to become a real man, …and he had. He was her Erik, her angel. In a whisper, still lost in the memory, she told her friend, "He came into my life at a time when I was completely alone as if the loneliness of my spirit had breathed life into him to create him only for me. I could have never expected that he would be the missing part of my soul."

Meg sighed dreamily. "It's so romantic, Christine! I am so happy for you!"

"Thank you, Meg, but as happy as I am, I keep thinking that now I have to go and break the heart of my childhood friend." Toying nervously with the box in her hands, she urgently demanded, "You are still coming with me, aren't you?"

"Of course!" Meg vowed and looped her arm through Christine's as they continued toward the stage.

The instant the girls emerged from the wings, Raoul glimpsed them, and with a warm smile curving his lips, he rushed to meet them, abandoning the conversation he had been having with Reyer mid-sentence and brushing him aside without a thought.

"Christine," Raoul called, glancing at Meg as if dismissing her from chaperoning them. When the little ballerina made no move to go, he had to hide his annoyance and instead attempted to ignore Meg's presence entirely. "I've missed you. London was so dreary and lonely without you around to keep me smiling. Did you have an enjoyable holiday?"

"Oh, …yes, I did," Christine stammered. She could feel Erik's eyes on her from the rafters or the balconies or some unknown place that she could not say or confirm as her eyes stayed steadily locked on the Vicomte.

Noting the box she clutched so tightly between tensed fingers, Raoul declared, "Ah, you've come to thank me for the gift. It was nothing really, just something that reminded me of you. Do you like it?"

"It…it's lovely." Christine glanced at Meg, who still held her arm, and the little ballerina gave her a reassuring smile. "But I…I actually came to return it to you."

"Return?" The Vicomte's face visibly fell at such news. "What…what do you mean?"

"I can't accept it, Raoul. I'm so sorry." With trembling hands, she held the box out to him and watched with an unacknowledged somberness as he reluctantly took it.

"But…why?" he asked, shaking his head incredulously. "If you don't like it, I could take you to choose another…, anything you want, Christine."

"It isn't the necklace, Raoul…. It's…. I'm…. There's someone else…."

"Oh." His eyes landed on the diamond and ruby pendant dangling from her neck, and following the path of his gaze, Christine cursed herself for forgetting to tuck it back into her collar. More assured and understanding, he somberly repeated, "Oh."

"I'm so sorry," she said again. "I never meant to hurt you. Raoul, you are my dearest friend."

The dejected Vicomte seemed as if he would say more, but then he cast a glance at Meg, who watched with avid interest and still did not abandon her friend's side. Straightening his shoulders, he cleared his throat and fought to appear unaffected. "And…he will be escorting you to the Masquerade then?"

Christine nodded solemnly. "Yes, he will."

"Well," Raoul went on, clearing his throat again, "may I at least know who he is, Christine? As an acquaintance of your father's and a dear friend of your childhood, I feel it is my duty to make certain you are well taken care of with a respectable man."

"Her teacher," Meg interjected without a thought, and Christine shot her a scolding look.

"Your…teacher?" Raoul asked. "Oh? I've met him before, haven't I? That night in the park? He was the man with the mask."

Christine felt her blood run cold, her eyes widening with mute horror as next to her, Meg went entirely stiff and muttered to herself, "M…mask?"

Glancing in terror at Meg's whitened pallor, Christine hastily replied, "Yes, …yes, that was him. I'm sorry for not telling you sooner, Raoul, and now you see why I cannot accept your gift. I hope you will not hate me, …but now I must get Meg to her mother. She isn't feeling well."

"Do you need help?" Raoul asked in concern at the ballerina's sudden sickly appearance.

"No!" Christine nearly shouted, and then forcing a smile, she more calmly replied, "No." Without another word or even a goodbye, she dragged a catatonic Meg offstage into the wings.

"Mask," Meg repeated with the same horror as Christine abruptly drew her down the hallway and into the sanctity of her dressing room, closing them inside and away from peering eyes.

"Meg?" Christine called gently, helping her friend to take a seat on her couch. She took the ballerina's chilled hands into her own and rubbed them vigorously, trying to replace the warmth. "Are you all right? Please say something."

Lifting her terror-stricken, green eyes, Meg gasped out, "Mask! Christine, a mask?"

Christine wanted to deny it; though a plausible lie was difficult to formulate, if she really tried, she knew she could come up with something. But one look at her friend made her halt her efforts. Meg did not deserve to be lied to. The truth might be a bitter reality, but it could not be avoided.

"Yes," Christine admitted softly. "He wears a mask."

A harsh breath was sucked between Meg's teeth as she tossed her golden head from side to side. "No, …tell me I am wrong, Christine…. Tell me that what I am thinking isn't so…. Please…. The only…the only man I've ever heard of in a mask…is the Phantom, the Opera Ghost…."

With grim seriousness, Christine nodded her suddenly weighty head. "Yes, …yes, Meg…."

"No…." Meg was still shaking her own head side to side. "No, no, no…. Christine, no…. It can't be true…. It isn't…."

"It is true, Meg. I don't want to lie to you."

"Your…your teacher is…the Opera Ghost?" She was yet unable to accept that the words coming from her lips could be reality.

Nodding, Christine somberly answered her, "Yes, …yes, he is."

Tears were rimming Meg's eyes, tears of a very valid fear and horror. "No, no, Christine, he's…he's a murderer…, a monster…. He cannot possibly be the man you love…. He's _killed_ people…."

"I know, Meg; I know all about what he's done…, and I love him still."

"Have you lost your mind?" the little ballerina suddenly shouted, leaping to her feet and yanking her hands from Christine's grasp. "Does he have a spell on you? Is that it? Are you bewitched?"

"No, Meg, I am not under a spell or hypnotized or enchanted. I am entirely myself."

"And yet you still insist that you're in love with that monster!"

"Meg, please," Christine begged, rising to face her frantic friend, "try to understand-"

"I don't! I don't understand! He is a murderer! A _murderer_, Christine! And his pranks! How many people has he caused injury to in the past months alone to get what he wanted?"

"Meg, listen," Christine began calmly, taking her friend's hands again. "It isn't that way. Erik is no monster; he is only a man…, a man who has never known even an inkling of love in his entire life. He can't help but react irrationally at times because he knows no better. But I can promise you that his soul is good and that I know his heart completely."

"You are naïve!" Meg insisted nearly yelling. "I cannot stop you from going to him, and I can't make your decisions for you. But I can tell you that you are a fool if you honestly believe that you can trust him or that you are doing the right thing." Meg shook her head, and glancing warily around herself, she rushed to the door, leaving without even a goodbye.

As the door slammed shut behind her, Christine wearily hung her head in her hands, now knowing not only the loss of Raoul but of Meg as well.

Without even having to turn and glance over her shoulder, she called, "I trust you heard all of that."

"Every word."

Pushing back the tears that threatened, she faced her open mirror and Erik in his formal phantom appearance just within the entranceway. His expression was guarded, unreadable, and she stammered, "You have…quite a reputation with the ballerinas."

"Yes."

"Are you…angry?"

Erik was struggling to keep himself under control, to not release the full extent of his temper as he was apt to do. In a tight, constricted voice, he demanded, "Do you realize what you have just done?"

"What…what do you mean?"

"My entire life I have had to protect myself and my very existence in the human race." He swallowed hard, bitterness in his eyes. "And now in these past few moments, you have unwittingly put all of that in jeopardy."

"I…I did not intend to-"

"But you did!" he interrupted, snapping at her in a roar. "I will be very fortunate indeed if I do not have the _gendarmes_ barging down my door this very night." Forcing a breath and a pause to calm himself, he went on soberly. "I was a fool to have ever believed I could live with you as a normal man, walk in the daylight with you, …take you to a ball…."

"But you can, Erik!" she insisted wholeheartedly. "You will!"

He was shaking his head. "Do you honestly believe that I could take you to that ball now? Now that the little Giry knows who I am? By tomorrow, this entire opera house will know that you are carrying on an elusive affair with the phantom."

"No, no, Meg wouldn't-"

"Wouldn't tell our little secret?" he finished for her. "You are indeed the naïve fool she dubbed you if you think that. She and those damn ballet rats are nothing more than gossips. There is not a secret under this roof that they do not know. And what happens then, Christine? I escort you to the ball where I will be most certainly captured and incarcerated for my many black crimes. And what will happen to your fallen angel?" His beautiful eyes showed her a lifetime of pain and shattered hopes. "Then once again your pathetic mankind will neglect to show compassion or mercy. They will do nothing more than have a monster put to death…. Perhaps that is how it should be. It is certainly a just ending to a pitiful life."

"No, Erik, don't talk that way." The tears that had been trying to graze the surface were now welling up in her eyes. "You will not be arrested or put to death. I won't let that happen."

"_You_!" he spat in half-rage. "_You_ have practically handed me over already! Why not seal my fate now? Why not run to your Vicomte and reveal my true identity to him? Tell him that you are bedding a murdering freak?" He shrugged apathetically. "I guess if given the option, I'd prefer one thrust of the Vicomte's sword to rotting away in prison before they finally hang me…. So go on and tell him, my love. It would be the most merciful act you could perform for me now."

Crying silent tears that made shimmering trails down her cheeks on their cascading descent, she pleaded in a whisper, "I'm sorry, Erik. I'm sorry…."

It broke his heart to look at her, to see her crying those tears that he ached only to kiss away. And while he yearned to the core of his being to take her in his arms, he hardened his heart to her. She had betrayed him, albeit ignorantly, but could she not understand that he was a wanted man, a criminal, and she had just risked his freedom and his life? He was not a normal man, and she had to understand that there were limits that not even her love could exceed.

"Erik, please," she was whispering, her heart in her eyes. "Meg will tell no one; I know she won't. And we can carry on as we have been and go to the ball…as we planned."

"No," he replied coldly, his eyes distant. "No, we can't." Anger built in his chest until he thought it would burst, anger at his miserable life and the miserable world. He couldn't let her see, couldn't let her stay. In a feral growl, he commanded, "Get out."

"W…what?"

"Get out!" he shouted this time, noticing with utter self-loathing how she leapt back with a flicker of fright at his tone. And though he could tell that she wanted to argue, wanted to ignore his harsh order, she stared at him for a long moment and then left him there without a word, perhaps seeing that any argument would have only been a waste of breath.

As soon as the door closed behind her, Erik regretted his every word, every outraged syllable and shout at her. Clenching his fists with sheer rage, he stalked back into his world, into the damp, dark corridors alone and as ferocious as an incensed tiger. If he had been his former self, the unloved, shunned monster they called him, he would have simply gone after the little Giry and strangled her before she ever had the chance to speak of his secret. Change all he was, change all that could be changed, and yet his murderous tendencies still remained, his sudden arisen need to destroy whenever he was hurt by the cruelty of the world. He felt it now as clear and sure as any emotion he had ever known. Dear God, he was a monster still beneath it all!

Desperate to be rid of the repugnant urge and consuming need to act, he gave an enraged shout, a yell from his gut, and punched one of his clenched fists against the stone wall of the caverns. Pain erupted and washed over him, pain that was in its own way a blessing and an answered prayer. As he raised his bruised and bleeding knuckles to his careful inspection, he knew a queer sense of calm that stole his rage completely.

Tears followed. Tears of remorse and self-loathing. What had he done? A part of him begged to pursue Christine, to steal her back to his world with a hundred thousand earnest apologies for his brutishness, but he squashed the very idea, unable to face her yet, embarrassed by his behavior and terrified to find her feelings altered because of it.

With an anguished roar, Erik cradled his hurt hand against his chest and fled back to his home alone with only the bittersweet memory of holding her in his arms to cling to.


	13. Chapter 13

For the next two days, Erik did not approach Christine. He watched her every moment, gazing with such unfathomable longing, but still, he kept his distance, unsure how to mend the rift between them. The right words to say, the correct way to act would not come to him, and he was cursing himself for once again choosing shadows and solitude, for watching her world spin by without returning to being a part of its pirouette. It was almost too easy because it was so familiar: detach, hide behind constructed walls, keep the upper hand when pleading forgiveness would have made him weak. No, the Opera Ghost was not weak! But then again, what good were walls when he had no one to try and tear them back down? Alone and unloved by his own choosing, and it felt like such pointless masochism when the very source of his heartbeat was so close to his grasp, could alter every perception with one touch. Christine…. Why was he so mercilessly punishing them both?

Back to being a world away, Christine was actually waiting impatiently for him to give up the residual consequences of his temper and return to her. She attended rehearsal those two days, expecting to hear his voice, lingering in her dressing room as if inviting him to appear, but he did not come. And yet, she felt his eyes stalking her as they had when he was a pretend angel and a true phantom. And even as she abhorred his chosen stubbornness, she felt numb inside, as if she was only going through the motions of living lacking a real purpose without him to make life real. At night, it was worse. Before this, she had been spending her nights in Erik's home, in his arms; now alone in her apartment beneath the covers of her own bed, she felt frigidly cold, wanting only to curl up against his back as she had so often and feel him turn over in the middle of the night to find her and draw her sleeping form close to him. Already, it had become a comfort and a delicious luxury, and now without it, she was aching.

It was New Year's Eve, and Reyer had ended rehearsals early so that everyone had ample time to prepare for the night's Masquerade Ball. Christine did not want to attend any longer, having no desire to dress up and spend the entire night in the arms of strangers, but she knew that as a part of the cast, she had to at least make an appearance.

When she was finally finished primping and preening, she gazed critically at her reflection in the mirror. Her gown was pink, the palest of its shade, and it was beautiful. Gathered in the back to layers of bustles, it tapered to trail on the floor behind her with lace trim. Her dark tresses were drawn from her face but still cascaded in curls down her back, and she had a small tiara set and pinned to the top of her head, the stones glinting off of the lights in her room. To cover her face and hide her identity was a pale pink mask, and already, it was bothering her to wear it as she shifted it a bit and tugged its coarse material away from her soft skin with a cringe. She found herself marveling how Erik could wear his nearly every moment of every day when one night to her seemed like torture.

As a final addition, she attached the diamond and ruby necklace Erik had given her, exposed now for all to see. Let them wonder who had given her such a trinket. Even if Erik would not escort her to the ball, she was still his love, and she was determined to show it.

Grabbing a cloak and hurriedly tying it over her finery, she left her apartment and met her awaiting carriage to the opera.

By the time Christine arrived, crowds of people were already entering the lobby, every one masked, talking and laughing gaily at the annual celebration. It was a time for the entire cast and crew to intermingle with the opera's most wealthy patrons in an event that was so prestigious that admittance was by invitation only. The purpose and point of the night was to be unrecognized and concealed beneath masks, as one could play a part and be anyone one wanted, but some of the more jubilant guests were eagerly revealing themselves to their friends; it was always the case when the real actors of the stage and the wealthy elite who had no taste or talent for the arts intermixed. The rich saw it as a game that they were buying their way to be a part of while the performers saw it as their job, requiring as flawless a role as the stage demanded. Another show, and Christine was eager to think the same and treat it as such without heartstrings and wishes for what could have been.

She was entering the theatre where the main part of the ball was taking place, the stage full to its edges with dancing couples, when someone caught her arm and halted her steps.

"Do I dare guess the identity of one so fair that she must be a princess?"

Though her original intention had been to play at masquerading, it was abruptly forgotten, and she laughed and clapped her hands with delight. "Raoul! You are dashing indeed!"

The Vicomte gave an elegant bow, taking her hand in his. "_Enchanté_, mademoiselle." His costume was essentially uncreative, for he simply wore a soldier's uniform and a matching navy blue mask; it was nothing like some of the attendees who were dressed as various animals or even mythical creatures.

"Aren't you supposed to pretend that we've never met and that I am only a stranger in a mask?" he asked.

_A stranger in a mask…._ She could not keep her mind from venturing to another, but with a sharp mental scolding, she made sure that her smile had only faltered for that instant, replacing it as though no dark shadow had ever crossed her memory. "That would be nearly impossible to do with you."

"Perhaps you know me too well." His eyes behind the mask glowed with affection as if she had never broken his heart. Glancing about, he questioned with feigned interest, "So where is your escort? He wears a mask often to conceal his identity; he should fit in well with this crowd."

"Oh," she stuttered, "well, …he was unable to take me. His work keeps him very busy."

"Work is no excuse to miss an event such as this with the woman you love," the Vicomte remarked with disdain. "He must not be the jealous sort then. Most men would fear to send their lady to a ball alone lest she spend all evening dancing in the arms of another." Without awaiting her consent, Raoul lifted her hand to set it upon his arm. "On that subject, may I dance with the loveliest woman in the room?"

Christine beamed up at him despite her better judgment. No! She would not dwell on Erik and his stubborn nature tonight! She was going to dance and enjoy herself like any girl her age would! After all, this was a Masquerade Ball; tomorrow she could be the same old Christine again.

"Yes, you may," she conceded and allowed Raoul to lead her toward the stage.

For hours, she danced. Most often, it was with Raoul as her partner, laughing and talking all the while as if they were the same dear friends they had been in their youth. He was able to make her laugh nearly to tears even as her feet moved gracefully in the dance steps, never missing a beat.

The tune that was being played by the orchestra was ending, and they were starting a slower melody. Without even asking, Raoul moved seamlessly from the steps of one dance to the next, never releasing her for even an instant.

Christine smiled at him, following his lead. "You know, people will begin to talk about us if you keep monopolizing my dances this way."

The Vicomte shrugged innocently. "Oh, let them talk. It makes no difference what they say." He suddenly grew serious, reaching a hand to touch the pendant resting idly against her skin. "You know, the necklace I gave you would have looked even more stunning on you tonight…. I still have it, …if you decided to…change your mind?"

Christine shifted uncomfortably in his arms, unable to put any real distance between them. "Raoul, …I…."

"No," he interrupted, his smile returning, "don't say anything now. Let us just enjoy the ball tonight as two friends would."

Relief flooded her, but she was still hesitant in her heart, knowing in some way that he was expecting this respectable, comfortable sort of friendship to evolve into something more, that he was only acting the perfect gentleman with the lingering hope that she would eventually give up on Erik. But she said not a word about it, only went along with his plan for a friendly evening as if nothing else mattered.

Time was ticking by, one minute fading to the next until it was only ten minutes till midnight and a new year.

Raoul had left her for the moment after a fellow patron had recognized him and had stolen him off for a business conversation that Christine cared little to listen to. Instead she weaved her way through the crowd of masked people to stand alongside the dancers, gazing at the couples moving so elegantly in their steps.

It was almost mesmerizing to watch, like the turning of a music box before her eyes. Just observing, she could easily read each couple, the cads and coquettes flirting shamelessly, the pairs who were openly in love with one another, strangers meeting for the first time; each couple seemed to have their very own story, and staring as a silent onlooker, she found herself longing for hers. Unconsciously, her hand moved to the jewel dangling at her neck, twisting it idly between her fingers while in her mind, she envisioned her angel.

Lost in her thoughts, she did not see a figure approaching her, did not even notice a presence until a gloved hand lightly grazed her bare shoulder. Jumping with a gasp, she flipped around to face her addressor, and as soon as her eyes fell upon him, all of the breath fled her lungs as though she had suddenly forgotten exactly how to breathe. It wasn't only that; she had suddenly forgotten everything, where she was, who she was, …even how to make her heart keep beating, all with that first look into two endless, mismatched eyes.

Christine wanted to say his name, wanted to hear it if only to assure herself that it was not only her imagination creating him, but her lips would not do her bidding and form the word. From deep within, though, her soul was shouting it, calling out to his, starved for him as though it had been an eternity since their last meeting.

She would have recognized him anywhere, even in this room full of masked people where at the present moment, he fit right in. He was dressed as the figure of the Red Death in a very Shakespearean costume with a long red cape that nearly trailed the floor. Over his disfigurement, instead of the white mask she was so accustomed to seeing, he wore one that was carved to look like the face of a skeleton, covering everything except his bottom lip and those intense eyes. In those depths, she could read a million emotions, so powerful that her knees were shaking beneath her from one glimpse into their recesses.

Without a single word, as if he had no words himself, he extended his gloved hand, an offer, a proposition that she could not refuse, and never hesitating, she accepted, weaving their fingers together intimately. Her eyes were glowing with a strange internal light as if her soul itself was peering out from the blue orbs, and a smile that was so pure and so genuine curved her pink lips.

Graceful in his every movement, her masked partner led her out onto the dance floor, and deliberately slow, so much so that she wanted to scream from the sheer torture of it, he drew her into his arms, lightly resting one hand at her waist while the other still kept hers captive. She placed her other palm against the rich brocade of his costume, wishing with her whole being that it was instead chilled skin she was touching. Could he read her thoughts? Could he see the longing in her eyes? The yearning? The dull ache of desire?

They were both caught in their own enchanted spell; everything else faded away into oblivion until it was only the two of them, only their love and passion, only their dance. In perfect synchronization, their bodies moved to the music in the same steps that everyone else did, but their motions held a peculiar, unearthly grace, a fluidness that drew envious eyes from the others on the dance floor.

The dancers were not the only ones watching. Having left his acquaintance, intent on claiming another dance with Christine, Raoul stood dumbstruck at the edge of the stage, staring at her in the arms of the Red Death. Of course, he had seen her dance with other men, but this one was different. This one made the Vicomte immediately wary, ready to run to her aid, but…she appeared to be anything but needing help at that moment. It was like a knife to the heart, cutting straight through flesh to pierce so deeply inside. There was no denying it, no justifying what he thought he saw. The rapt look on her face said it all: she was dancing with the man she loved.

Erik was in heaven. He must have been to be so deliriously happy in a room filled with the same sort of people he had spent his lifetime cursing. In the midst of it all, here he was holding an angel in his arms. How ridiculous he had been, nearly possessed with jealousy as he had watched her in the arms of the Vicomte dance after dance from the rafters above their heads! Now holding her, he could see the truth of her constant affections blatantly displayed in her blue eyes as if the life had suddenly been breathed back into her only at the moment he had come to her. She was his!

A laugh fell from Christine's lips, a sound she had no control over feeling or creating; it was simply an attestation to the sheer happiness burning pathways through her veins. She didn't care who heard or who saw them; nothing mattered now save the man holding her. Let the world and society be damned! This was exactly how she had wanted the ball to be: Erik's arms around her through every dance, claiming her as his and daring any other man to take his place.

"Erik," she softly said, finally able to articulate words with a grin that glowed upon every feature of her masked face, "you're here with me. I feel as if I must be dreaming!"

"Am I forgiven then for my errant behavior?" he asked, and she noticed how the hand he had at her waist kept such a light hold as though permitting her to move away should she choose and yet at the same time, knowing that she would not.

Her gaze mocked his question. "For the way you acted at our last meeting, yes, you are forgiven. For your male pride and absolute obstinacy, you are not."

"Obstinacy?" he repeated.

"Yes, it took you two days to apologize. _Two days_! I would have forgiven you that very night had you come to me then, but instead, you chose to torture us both."

Though his mask concealed his features, she could swear that she felt him raise an eyebrow teasingly. "And was it truly torture for you, my Christine? Being without me for two days? Without my voice? My face? My hands upon your skin? My body so deeply inside of you?" His voice had grown hoarse with the immediate flames of desire licking at his starved body with her nearness, and he saw with a flicker of satisfaction how her eyes grew hazy with the images he was creating.

"Torturous," she replied, heat spiraling in her stomach and dropping to a dull, empty ache within her. "Agonizing. I have wanted you desperately."

"And…do you want me now?" he demanded, running his gaze provocatively over every detail of her.

"Oh yes," she answered with the same fervency, unashamed that they were casting such fervent looks amidst a crowd of people. "I am burning for you, _mon ange_."

Suddenly, Erik yanked her close, abrupt and harsh, ceasing the movements of the dance and eliciting a gasp from her lips. Leaning to her, he hissed in her ear, "And yet you have spent the entire night in the arms of the Vicomte. You are _mine_, Christine, and yet you have forced me and everyone else in this room to see you with him carrying on like a courting couple. Do you have any idea how it killed me to watch you?"

From the edge of the dance floor, Raoul saw the Red Death clutching Christine in an entirely improper and unyielding hold. The animal! How dare he touch Christine, especially so intimately in public? Had he no regard for the rules of society and the sacredness of Christine's reputation? The headstrong Vicomte was about to stalk over to them and rescue Christine from the Red Death's grasp when a hand on his arm stopped him. Glancing down, he met the knowing eyes of Meg Giry, and she simply shook a solemn head. He easily could have disregarded her, but he didn't, instead watching with a sense of growing sense of despair when he knew he could not be her hero.

Erik's grip was digging into her, his fingers curled furiously at her waist. What was she doing to him? She was turning him into a jealous, love-poisoned creature to be pitied! And at the same time as he loved her, he hated her for that!

"Damn you!" he breathed, his lips hovering over her ear, enraged even as he closed his eyes to savour her sweet scent. "You will destroy me!"

Drawing back enough to meet his fiery gaze, she used her free hand to reach for his mask. The determination and purpose in her blue eyes kept him unmoving, made him remain steady and waiting for her to do as she pleased. Carefully fitting her fingers beneath the edge of the skull face, she lifted it.

Erik's entire body went rigid, and he slammed his eyes closed, waiting for the chill of air against his deformity and the cries of revulsion from unwelcome onlookers. But they did not come. To his surprise, she did not remove his mask entirely, only lifted it enough to expose his mouth, and without hesitation or concern for her reputation or the gossip that her actions would bring, she met his misshapen lips with her own. There, for all to see and witness, she kissed her angel with every bit of pent up passion in her body.

Surprise quickly faded into desire as he kissed her back, forgetting everything but the woman in his arms. Mouths tugged ravenously at each other's, kisses fevered and urgent, and he released her from his bitter grasp only to encircle her more securely in his arms, pressing her flush to his aching body.

Ball goers were whispering at the passionate scene, giggling behind their hands while the dancers on the floor around them spun nearer for a glance. From his place, Raoul stared with pained horror. He had wanted to pin it all on the masked man with her, but there was no denying who had begun the kiss and that it was not at all initiated by force. His Christine, his Lotte, was kissing this stranger in a manner that was wanton and could not be called innocent by any means. Damn that masked devil for not only stealing Christine's heart but her virtue as well!

Christine would have laughed with elation if Erik's lips were not devouring hers as best he could with both of their masks in the way. His tongue tasted her, and she provocatively arched her body against his. It wasn't enough! It wouldn't be enough until they were joined as one, until she could feel her soul being consumed and lost in him.

Drawing his lips away with an air of reluctance, he brought his hands up to tenderly cup her face between them, passionately breathing, "Christine…."

A playful grin lit her lips as she told him, "I think that very clearly showed what I want. Don't you agree? And I daresay now everyone in this room will know _you_ are _mine_."

"Christine," he whispered again, this time with tender awe. "What a treasure I have! You amaze me, _ange_." Never once giving any regard or notice to those watching them, he softly told her, "But I'm through playing social games. I want you. Will you deny me?"

"No," she insisted, straightening and securing his mask in place. "Now, Erik, now."

"As my love wishes, so it shall be." With ravenous need glinting in his gaze, he effortlessly swept her into his arms. "Now hold tight to me."

As she trustingly complied, Erik stole a look purposely to the enraged Vicomte. Giving a hint of a smile, utterly arrogant and mocking on his part, Erik leaned his head into the crook of Christine's throat and swept his long cloak around them both.

To the people who had been furtively eyeing them, the couple appeared to simply vanish with a burst of smoke that, once it parted, revealed only an open place where they had stood. The true trick was one of Erik's many devices. The floor yielded in certain spots of every room, making for quick escapes, and it was only an utter convenience that Erik had danced Christine over one of those exact places. With his cloak protectively encircling them so that she would not see the fall, they dropped to a level of cellars beneath the stage floor in a gust of air and motion.

When he had his feet on the solid, stone ground, he unwrapped her from his cape, and with a tender gleam in his eyes as they met hers, he carried her down the familiar passageways to his home. The Vicomte would likely pursue them, Erik had little doubt, under the belief that his beloved had been abducted, as if that could be a plausible excuse after the little display they had given on the dance floor, but with his great influence on the funds of the opera, the idiot managers would indulge any whim he had and would permit a search. By that time, Erik planned to be buried safely in his home with Christine. Down in those depths, they would go unfound, and if an ignorant Vicomte even dared venture near the house without knowing the paths, he would find one of Erik's many traps and likely his death. The thought alone was considered without care attached; as far as Erik was concerned, if that was the Vicomte's inevitable fate, it would practically be a blessing!

In his strong arms, Christine was basking in the familiar nearness of him. How she had missed it! Ached for it! She could hardly contain herself and acting on the thrill of her emotions, she lifted off her mask, tossing it to the floor carelessly, and nuzzled her nose against the cold skin of his neck. Glancing mischievously up at him, she covered the spot with her mouth, pressing light kisses into the crease of his throat.

"What…what are you doing?" he stammered, suddenly focused only on her and her warm, soft lips.

"Reminding you what your stubbornness forced you to spend two entire days without," she teased. Returning to her task, she used the tip of her tongue to trail the same path her lips had been taking.

He shivered and weakly ordered, "Christine, stop."

"And what will you do to me if I don't?" she taunted with amusement, pushing his shirt back to circle her tongue just above his collarbone.

Erik moaned low in his throat, closing his eyes as the fire of passion seared his flesh. "Foolish girl," he muttered, and with abruptness to every movement, he brought her to one of the cold stone walls and pressed her back against it. "You play with fire to tempt me in such a way."

"Oh? Well, perhaps I enjoy playing with fire." With Erik's firm grip holding her, she enticingly brought her legs up to wrap them around his waist, feeling just how much he was aching as his hardness pushed against her even through layers of clothing in between. "I like to run my fingers through the flames and feel them burn my skin."

"Vixen," he hissed, and even though he had meant for it only to tease, the hoarseness of desire blanketed his beautiful voice as he arched his hips against hers and said far more.

Christine reached for his mask and yanked it off, tossing it to the ground. In the dim darkness of the catacombs, to anyone else, this would be the face of death staring back, but to her, it could only be the face of the man she loved.

Without the mask to hinder him, Erik captured her lips with his, one gloved hand straying to cup the nape of her neck while the other kept her suspended against the cave wall. This kiss was savage, feverish, and she tightened the grip of her thighs on his hips, squirming desperately against the hard planes of his body.

His tongue plunged into her mouth as he yearned to plunge into her body, imitating the very act with every ferocious motion, not asking only taking. How had he endured two days without this, without _her_! His fingers strayed down her smooth chest, momentarily tangling around her necklace before continuing lower over the swell of her breast until he was cupping it with his palm against the hard boning of her corset, cursing the unyielding garment. It was like an iron barrier between his hands and her softness. She was mewing her own discontent with manmade obstructions, tugging at his collar as though she possessed the strength to tear it away and wrinkling her nose in disappointment when it did not even remotely budge.

Yanking his lips from hers, he vowed in a ragged voice, "I am _not_ taking you in these damp caverns."

Christine gave no argument to that, shifting uncomfortably against the hard stone wall as the coldness of the rock seeped in through layers of clothing, but her head spun with desire's waves as he lowered her to the ground and grabbed her gloved hand in his, never allowing her to collect herself in his rushed pace for home.

The journey felt never-ending in every long and tedious moment. Finally, the boat arrived on the shore of his house, and though he hardly had an inkling of tolerance left, he took the moment to drag it out of sight. Luckily, the front of his supposed house blended in with the cave wall behind it and could easily be overlooked by uninvited guests, should any get close enough to its doorway. Boat hidden, door locked behind him, he was taking every precaution tonight, and every detail was thoroughly executed and stalled any remaining patience in its track until he could finally pursue Christine with anticipating footfalls.

Halting in the doorway to his bedroom, Erik let his eyes greedily feast on the vision of her as she lingered in the center of the room. Holding his eye, she lifted her hands to her hair and slowly pulled the pins loose one by one, releasing the mass of curls to fall in a thick cascade over her shoulders. Never once taking her eyes from his, her hands moved to the clasps of her gown, unhooking until she could draw the gown off and let it tumble only half-noticed to the floor. One layer and the next were lost until clad only in her chemise and pantaloons, she approached him with a gentle careening of her hips in her every step. When she was only inches away, playful amusement dancing in the depths of her eyes, she reached out as if to touch him, but instead lifted the plumed, red hat from his head. Gathering all of her curls in one hand, she tamed them back with a twist and tucked them beneath the brim as she set it on her own head.

"Am I as menacing as you in this hat?" she asked, pretending to appear a threat with a malicious expression as well.

"Not menacing. I daresay I'd call you adorable."

Even though she beamed at his compliment, she feigned insult. "Then I guess I'll have to show you just how dangerous I can be, as dangerous as any phantom to be sure."

With never a hesitation, she began to undress him, ridding him of his elaborate costume as he watched her intently and allowed her to do as she pleased. Being well accustomed to fancy clasps and hooks from her own costumes, it took her only a few moments to have him entirely bared before her.

Her eyes trailed appreciatively over his body. She no longer saw the scars from the many sufferings of his life, the malformations of his face; they were now only an integral part of the whole, all making up her love, her Erik. Her eyes lingered on the blatant proof of his desire, and even though she was hardly innocent any longer, a faint blush still tinged her cheeks as she studied with a long, appreciative stare. But she refused to let any remaining modesty hinder her purpose as she swept her impassioned gaze back up to his.

Erik wanted to touch her, in a tortured heat from her ardent inspection, but as he extended a hand to gently caress her smooth upper arm, she jerked away from his fingers and shook her head, saying with a tone of authority, "No, no, you are not yet allowed to touch me. I'm the dangerous phantom, remember? This is _my_ game, and I mean to have my way with you first."

Raising intrigued brows, he retracted his hand with silent acquiescence, eagerly willing to indulge her every whim as curiosity inspired a patience he had thought was gone.

Christine felt brazen, and she knew that it was only with Erik that she could act in such a manner. It was certainly not ladylike! But then again, Erik did not want her to be a lady, did he? No, …he had called her a hoyden….

With a mischievous smile, she tilted back the wide, velvet brim of her hat, so that she could press her lips to the hollow of his throat. Her hips arched into his hardened body, making him hiss a harsh breath through clenched teeth with barely a contact. The absolute power she had over him at that moment was intoxicating. Every light graze of a fingertip made him shiver and fist hands to keep control. Oh, but she was not done yet! Kissing the hollow of his throat again, she moved onward with her lips and tongue, leaving a wet path down the center of his chest as her fingers clenched his hips.

With widening eyes, Erik watched in a fever as she slid to her knees before him, tilting her plumed hat back so she could meet his desirous gaze. Holding his eye, she leaned slowly forward until she could press her lips to the part of him that was aching for her as his guttural cry only urged her on in her game. Concentrating on her task, she trailed her lips in delicate kisses along his shaft, knowing that his eyes were locked on her, unable to dare look away. Coming up to the tip, she boldly parted her lips and took him into her mouth.

"Christine!" he cried out fervently, hardly able to breathe. She was teasing him with her movements, taking him in and out and using her tongue to lick him until it was taking every bit of control he possessed to hold back. He had grabbed onto the hard wood of the doorframe around him and was gripping at it with whitened knuckles as delirious moans of pleasure fell uninhibited from his lips.

Erik could stand it no longer, and despite his agreement to her authority, he caught her by her arms and pulled her back to her feet. "I have to have you now," he ordered, giving her no room to argue.

His eager hands tore at her chemise, ripping it in his desperation to remove it as she helped to rid herself of every other obtrusive interference when he was so eager for skin. When her hands reached for the plumed hat, he stopped her. "Leave it."

Christine smiled with that mischievous gleam of seduction in her eyes and straightened the brim. "Then this is still my game, and I may have you as I wish?" she asked sweetly.

"Of course," he conceded even as his fingers parted her thighs and stroked her, finding her so wet and ready for him.

Pulling out of his grasp, she grabbed his hand and drew him to the bed. With a little push, she made him lay back on the soft mattress and climbed atop, crawling up his body with her legs on either side of him. Holding his darkened eyes with hers, she lowered herself until she was taking him inside of her with a deliberate slowness, feeling him stretching and filling her inch by inch until he was so deeply embedded within her.

"You are amazing," he breathed, gazing up at her with a mixture of adoration and need.

Her previous air of authority faltered with the rising sensations within her. Instinct was taking control now, and victim to it, she started to move her hips in a rhythm that was of her choosing this time. He permitted her as she pleased, content for the moment to simply watch her find pleasure. Lying back on the pillows, he reached up to cup her breasts as she rode him, thrilled with the delighted cry his action brought from her lips.

His necklace dangled from her throat, striking her chest with her every movement, and he was reminded with a sense of revelry that she was his, that the damn Vicomte and many other men at that ball had looked upon her with yearning and desire, but it was he who she had chosen, he who she was riding to fulfillment, he who was buried deep within her heated flesh. The diamonds and rubies caught flickers of the fire's glow and sparkled, mesmerizing him like a prism of light until he tore his eyes from it to look at his beautiful Christine.

Her eyelids had lowered until they were half-closed over her hazy, blue eyes. With her palms pressed flat to his chest, she rocked atop him, her motions becoming harder and faster with her growing passion until with a great crescendo of sensation that made her shudder with its power, she found pleasure, gasping his name as if he was its inspiration.

Simply seeing her in the throes of her passion had driven him so near to the edge, but he refrained from allowing himself to succumb. As she recovered her senses, he abruptly rolled over, never disentangling their bodies even for a moment. The hat tumbled to the floor releasing dark curls as he pinned her beneath him, her arms eagerly clinging to him with a satiated languidness that played over her every feature. As the desire mounted within him, he thrust roughly, caressing any bit of silken flesh he could. With a harsh moan of ecstasy, he exploded within her wet folds, feeling her shiver with him from the sheer intensity.

Christine was still smiling dazedly as he collapsed exhausted atop her, savouring his weight, his nearness, the scent of him. As he raised his head to meet her eye, she beamed at him, her voice tinged with her own fatigue as she spoke. "You came for me. You didn't want to go to the ball, but you came for me."

"I will always come for you," he passionately declared, pressing his lips in a pious kiss to her chest. "Always. I realized that I care little about the danger if it prevents me from being at your side. Danger be damned!"

"You're an angel," she replied with a yawn. "You can just fly away from it as you did tonight."

"That was more like falling than flying," he corrected her with amusement, and she giggled.

"Maybe, but it felt like _magic_. You create such magic, Erik, whenever you are with me."

"Yes," he agreed, twirling one of her loose curls around his finger. "As I've told you before, you are my inspiration, Christine, my muse. For you, I would do and be anything."

Christine was silent for a long moment, suddenly growing serious with the trail of her thoughts. "But aren't you worried that they will come after us? Meg knows who you are, and Raoul will notice that I am gone."

Arrogant pride creased his features as if he had won a great prize over worthy competition. "The Vicomte witnessed our little scene on the dance floor with the rest of them," he replied, watching her response to this news intently. "Does that…upset you?"

She shook her head against the pillows. "He knows that I am in love with someone else; I told him as much. And if he has chosen to continuously hope that I will change my mind, then he is breaking his own heart again. I have made my decision, and after tonight, I don't think anyone would argue that."

"He might," Erik insisted. "I am _not_ sympathizing with him, but I will say that if I was in his place, if I saw you running off with him, I could find some way to twist it around so that I believed that you had been abducted against your will."

"Against my will?" she repeated with a laugh crossing her lips. "I believe that it was _I_ who kissed you."

"It was, but this is at which point jilted suitors create some ridiculous story that the lady was being hypnotized or was under a spell to behave in such a manner."

Christine pondered his words intently. Erik's idea seemed silly and preposterous, but then again…. "Do you truly think he would assume that you had a spell over me?"

"If the little Giry tells him that I am the murdering phantom, then yes, I think so indeed."

Her blue eyes widened. "Meg…. And how could I blame her for it? She cares about me so much that she would assume that she is only looking out for me."

Erik studied her in the firelight, adoring every inch as he softly bid, "Then come away with me, Christine. Let's leave this place. We could go anywhere you want and start our life together."

"Raoul would come after us if he does believe that ridiculous story," she protested somberly. "He won't give up, …would you?"

"Never."

"And that is why I must return, and we will continue on as we have this week…at least for the time being." Perhaps if she could convince Meg that Erik was a good man and if Raoul saw how genuinely happy she was….

"Fine," he reluctantly agreed, and in that same unarguable tone, he told her, "But you may consider yourself affianced, my dear."

"What?" she stammered out in a squeak.

"Betrothed!"

"I know what you meant…. It's only…. Erik, you…you're asking me to marry you…."

"Asking you, telling you; either way, we _will_ be married. You had to have known that was my intention." He had thought that she would at least be accepting if not pleased, but she only lowered her eyes, causing him a sharp jab of remorse that he attempted to conceal. "Christine, …if that is not what you want…. I had hoped that you would approve…."

Christine shook her head and hesitantly looked at him. "It…it isn't exactly that…. You will think I'm ridiculous…."

"What is it? Tell me," he insisted, cupping her cheek in his palm tenderly.

She sighed, and though she was reluctant to comply, she softly answered, "Well, I had…I had been hoping that you would…propose…, you know, like a gentleman, romantic and…on one knee…and with a ring…."

Relief made him laugh aloud and kiss her forehead loudly. "Is that all? I thought you didn't want to marry me!"

"No," she replied, unable to keep herself from smiling at his excited happiness. "I…I want to be your wife, Erik, …very much, but I refuse to consider myself engaged until I am asked."

"Well, that won't be problematic since I have something planned that I think will be just to your liking."

Christine gave a melodramatic pout. "Well, you just gave away the surprise."

"Maybe, but at least now I know that when I ask, you will say yes." Happiness and bliss, and yet it all dimmed with one consideration, and as a slight shadow crossed his scarred features, he admitted, "I am a terrible man, Christine."

"No, you're not," she argued, taken aback by the tortured look in his eyes.

"What if I told you that if you had refused to marry me, then I had every intention of forcing you? Do you still consider me to be a good man?" It was a secret, something that he wasn't going to say, but the thought of it alone made him feel guilty. And it was true! He was so desperate to keep her that forcing her into marriage had not seemed an unpleasant option, especially under the justification that she would learn to forgive him when she saw what a devoted and loving husband he was determined to be.

Christine had grown solemn as well, and he half-regretted telling her. But then she lifted her hand to idly stroke his scarred cheek. "I'm not going to lie to you, Erik, especially since you are being so candid with me. That darkness that still lives and thrives inside of you scares me sometimes, but only because I fear that I could lose you to it. You seem to always be so near to it, and yet in all of this time that I have loved you, you have never given in. You have considered it, maybe even fantasized about it, but you have always kept control of yourself. I truly believe that even if you were considering forcing me to marry you, in the end, you wouldn't have done it because after seeing what it is like to love freely and be loved the same in return, you wouldn't have wanted me that way. You wouldn't have wanted _our marriage_ that way. You _are_ a good man, Erik."

"If I seem to be becoming one, it is only because of your never-ending faith in me," he replied. Her words were not exaggerated. How often in the past weeks had he considered reverting to what he had always known as a means to getting what he wanted? Force, manipulation, murder. But he hadn't actually acted on a single one of those impulses, if for no other reason, then out of a fear of disappointing Christine and losing her love. What an effect she was having on him!

Tracing idle patterns with his fingertips on her shoulder, Erik suddenly asked, "And when we are married, where would you like to live? We can go anywhere; just say the word, and I will buy you the finest house and everything you could ever want."

She pondered his proposition, but inevitably shook her head. "Our lives are in Paris…and the opera. I don't want to leave."

"Then we won't. I'll buy you a house, a _real_ house, not a cave underground, and we will live in this beautiful city."

"Which makes it all the more necessary for me to ease things with the Vicomte and Meg." A slow smile spread across her lips. "I like this: planning for our future together, I mean. It gives us something to hope for."

"Oh no, Christine," he whispered fervently, stroking her cheek, "you've already given me that."

As Christine reveled in his words and the love and adoration on his face, she suddenly exclaimed with dawning reality, "Erik, we missed midnight!"

He laughed low in his throat. "I think we were a bit preoccupied."

"Yes, but the new year began already!"

"Yes, and I am exactly where I'd like to spend every single moment of the new year, so forgive me if I am not disappointed." His body was already hardening again with renewed desire, and enticingly, he arched his hips against hers so that she could feel his need. "Do you agree?"

"Oh yes, _mon ange_," she breathed amidst spirals of her own passion as it stole over her. "And a happy new year it shall be."

"I would say so." Erik caught her lips in a fevered kiss. Eagerly, he made her his all over again, savouring every second to a year that he knew would be the best he had ever known.

* * *

The next morning, New Year's Day, the streets of Paris were nearly empty of people. A little figure huddled beneath a thick cloak scurried through one of the richest neighborhoods on the very edge of the city itself with a specific destination and purpose in mind and within moments, arrived at one particular door, knocking sharply even with a glance back at the street lest anyone had followed.

A maid opened the door after only a moment and surveyed the cloaked figure suspiciously. "May I help you?"

The concealing hood was pushed back, and a small, golden head peeked out. "I need to speak with the Vicomte right away," Meg Giry stated without waver.

"The Vicomte is still abed. It is very early for callers." The maid couldn't have been any older than Meg herself, but she was eyeing the young ballerina with a condescending air, already reaching for the door.

Meg placed her foot on the threshold so that it could not be shut and insisted with equaled haughtiness, "Then wake him. I guarantee that he will want to speak with me when he hears why I've come."

"And what, may I tell him, is your reason, pray tell?"

"You may tell him that I have news regarding Christine."

With open disdain and reluctance, the maid allowed Meg to enter the foyer and wait while she went to wake Raoul. Meg retained her uppity attitude until the maid was out of sight, and then she had to gape at her surroundings. Never before had she been in such an extravagant home with its high arching ceilings and gold trims. And this was only the foyer! She had to control herself to keep from sneaking peeks into some of the other rooms. With an anxious shifting in her place, she reminded herself of her purpose if only to refrain from acting like a child in a toy store.

Within moments of the maid's departure, Raoul was rushing down the stairs to meet her, having taken only enough time to carelessly throw a robe over his nightclothes.

"Meg!" he greeted her, catching her hands in his for a brief moment, obviously more interested in her news than her presence. "You know something of Christine."

Meg nodded solemnly. "And of that man from last night, …her _teacher_." She spoke the word with a certain bitterness and disapproval that perked Raoul's curiosity.

"Come to my study." The Vicomte motioned her down the hall, bursting with impatience to hear what she would say. Perhaps hope still existed….


	14. Chapter 14

It was New Year's Day, and far beneath the opera house and the rest of the celebrating world, Erik and Christine were surrounded by translucent bubbles as they shared a bath in the large tub in Christine's bath chamber.

"I cannot believe that your fair, sensitive skin can tolerate baths this hot," he remarked, already wearing a pink flush from the sweltering temperature.

"It only seems hot to you because you're so accustomed to the cold," she retorted matter of factly, reaching out to brush a wet caress along his scarred cheek. "Your skin usually retains a chill."

"It's a little late to complain about such a thing. You should have said something last night if the coldness of my skin is a problem to you…or this morning," he teased.

"Oh, I didn't say it was a problem," she eagerly replied, an intimate gleam shining in her gaze with the memories provoked.

Allured by that look, he scooted nearer so that he could draw her into his arms, delighting in the slick wetness and flushed heat of her skin. "You know," he was saying as he placed a kiss on the tip of her nose, "I think we should spend every single day of our lives this way."

"Indeed?"

"Yes, you see, my dear, I am planning for our future."

Christine's giggles echoed on the resonant, tiled walls around them. "Well, I think that my managers would be a little perturbed if I forewent rehearsals everyday to soak in long, delicious baths with the opera ghost."

"You forget that I own the theatre. Let them try to protest and see what happens to their jobs." Pushing back a fallen piece of her dark hair, he raised his brows playfully. "In fact, you will be seeing just how influential my role as owner is when you return to rehearsal tomorrow."

"Why?" she demanded. "What are you figuring to do?"

"Not the question now. The question is: what have I already done?" He paused, purposely making her wait for his news. Though he would not admit it aloud, he was pleased that she showed no hint of suspecting him of a crime or a retreat to the games of his sinful past, her expression brimming over with intrigue instead of reluctance.

"Well?" she pushed with mock annoyance. "Are you going to tell me, or shall I guess?"

"I had meant for it to be a surprise. I finished my opera."

"Your opera? And that would be the music that you're always writing so diligently but won't show me?"

"One and the same." Erik did not want to seem arrogant, but he could not keep the pride from his voice. The opera was his epic, his masterpiece, and he knew that it was wonderful. "I have been working on its composition for years, but since I met you, the notes have flowed effortlessly so that I finally finished it." Raising his wet hands, he held her face delicately between them. "The leading female role I wrote for you. It is perfectly crafted to your voice, your skill, your talent. I could hear you singing it in my head with each note I composed."

Christine was staring back at him with amazement. "Erik…," she breathed in awe, "I feel unworthy of such a gift. You are a genius; you compose music that touches my soul every time you play it for me. You could write for the greatest singers in the world."

"It astounds me how unlike an opera diva you are. _I_ did not make you that way; if anything, I've been _trying_ to turn you into one but have yet to be successful." Shaking his head with a laugh, he insisted, "_You_, _ange_, _are_ one of the greatest singers of the world. You only think otherwise because you are still in the process of gathering all of the accolades you deserve and progressing to become the leading soprano…. Hopefully, I have pushed the process along."

Her dark brow rose with renewed dubiousness. "And you have yet to tell me exactly what it is that you have done."

"During the festivities of the Masquerade, in the five seconds that I was not keeping a close eye on you and the Vicomte, I took the liberty of leaving the score to my opera in the offices of my managers. They will find it when they return to work tomorrow."

Excitement lit her features as she exclaimed, "You mean for the company to perform your opera!" Already in her mind, she was attempting to piece together the snippets that she had overheard during composition, a chord here, a theme there. She remembered thinking that it was the most beautiful music she had ever heard, but she hadn't known if it was only thoughts for a song or a symphony; she had never assumed it to be an opera!

"Well," Erik began tentatively, "…yes, I mean it to be performed by the company…in two weeks."

"Two weeks?" she shouted. "That…that can't be done! The managers will never agree to that. And what about the opera we've been working on? It's supposed to open next week."

"Gone," he simply replied with a shrug. "I didn't like it anyway; it was bordering on mediocre at best."

"But…but you can't do that," she argued. "How could you possibly?"

Her doubts only made him haughtier, and smiling wryly, he huffed, "Do you question my talents? I am an exceptional ghost as well as the owner of the opera house, and it is by playing both of these roles that I will get what I want in the end."

Drawing back out of his grasp, she crossed wet arms over her chest and demanded, "Explain yourself, Erik."

"Gladly. Along with the score, I have left my managers a little note filled with the exact details and insisting that the opera ghost's opera will be performed or a disaster beyond imagination and reason will occur. An empty threat, I assure you," he added at her wide eyes. "Tomorrow they will also receive a note from me, the opera house's legitimate owner, stating that I, too, have received the score and instructions. Acting as owner and top authority, I will deem that we will give in to the 'madman's threat' and perform the opera in two weeks time just as he wants. The letter states, and I quote, 'Since I have been given a copy of the ghost's score, I have taken the liberty of leafing through it, and though I am no expert or connoisseur of music, I think that it looks fascinating and have decided to attend the performance in my usual box, Box 5', as you well know. If my managers would care to argue against their owner's decision, they might very well have to find themselves new positions without a recommendation. And that, my dear Christine, is how I will inevitably have my opera performed in two weeks time with you in the diva's role."

Christine was silently pondering his scheme with a seriousness that made him worry. Folding his legs behind her, he drew her in close to him again. His thumb fitted under her chin and tilted her face so that she met his eye as he gently explained, "No one will be hurt by my plot, Christine. I am arranging it all without violence. Of course, there will likely be some annoyance and curses spoken on the part of my managers and Reyer and likely La Carlotta as well, but that's all. I am the owner, and they won't argue it with me."

"It's still deceitful," she replied, but even as she tried to continue appearing unsure, a slow smile was breaking through to spread across her lips. "But how can I be angry when truthfully, I am excited beyond words to sing something that you've written for everyone to hear?" Caressing his disfigurement lovingly, she earnestly added, "You deserve that, Erik; you are a genius, and it is an injustice that your music should be buried away down here."

"Maybe," Erik replied apathetically, "but I accepted long ago that that was the way of things. …And yet I can't say that it won't be incredible to hear the chords I've written being played by an entire orchestra. I've only ever heard them in my mind." Focusing his attention fully on her, he could feel the unarguable stirring of his desire; how could he deny it with her bare body so close to his, her wet skin in constant contact with his? Tracing long paths up and down the lengths of her bare arms, he allowed her to see the longing in his eyes. "And it will be ecstasy to hear your voice singing the notes I created for you, being raised to the very rafters with the music, to see you just as I've imagined it so many times. After our bath, we will begin to work on the score together. I believe that sections of it will provide you with a bit of a challenge."

How she adored receiving new music to work on! And knowing that it was Erik's and that it had been written for her and her alone made her all the more impatient. "Then let's go now. I am starting to become a wrinkled prune anyway."

"Ah, ah," he protested, catching her with a hand on either of her shoulders when she tried to rise. "I'm not through with you yet. You can't possibly mean only to tease me by sitting there naked across from me; you can't think that I wouldn't be affected by you, …enticed by you, …aching for you…."

"Oh," she replied eagerly as her own desire flared to life. She couldn't imagine ever denying him, not when he looked at her as he did, so ravenous and with such a need as if he intended to devour her wholly. That look alone caused her blood to race in her veins, and she willingly forgot everything else, eager to be lost to passion's waves again with him.

It wasn't until much later that he brought her to the piano and handed her a copy of the score to his _Don Juan Triumphant_. He became teacher then, and tenderness and desire were put aside for the time being as they worked on her role together. As promised, it did give her quite a challenge at times, but she loved the way it felt in her voice. Perfect. A perfect fit.

As they rehearsed, she cast covert glances at Erik, noticing how every so often as she sang a particularly lush passage, he would close his eyes and appear to be savouring her every sound. It was at those moments that she could feel her heart swelling with love for him, for his genius, for his adoration, and for the incredible way that he could feel the music, truly _feel_ it as if it were a tangible thing. As the time went by seemingly unnoticed and they continued to work, she was struck with pride for the masterpiece he had produced. With every portion he played and each line she learned to sing, she knew without a doubt that this opera far surpassed the famous ones she knew and loved. And a part of her anticipated rehearsal the next day when everyone would get to hear and appreciate Erik's talent, too long ignored and buried in the depths of the earth.

* * *

Anticipation for rehearsal was likely induced by the moment, Christine concluded the next morning as she sat with the rest of the cast before the managers. Monsieur André and Monsieur Firmin were angrily ranting about the gall of both the opera ghost and their employer, a foolish act on their part when the ghost was always within earshot. As Erik predicted, their decision was to go along with the opera ghost's detailed plans; after all, they had little room for argument. But they were making it well known to the cast that it was a forced choice, and to Christine's chagrin, they seemed to be throwing a good deal of glances in her direction, glances that were openly making assumptions about her involvement. How dare they? Her name had been mentioned in Erik's note no more than anyone else's in regards to costumes and make-up and the like; suspicion only came because Erik had put her and not Carlotta in the leading female role. As if she couldn't do it! As if she had not proven to them already that she was indeed capable of being the prima donna!

Carlotta herself was livid with the news, openly muttering curses and comments loud and clear enough to be heard by all. Christine tried to ignore the malicious words, reminding herself that the diva's opinion mattered little to anyone, but a few about her voice made her cringe and stiffen in her seat, fighting to keep her head high.

"Christine Daaé!" Carlotta continued to mumble. "Her voice is so shrill that it makes my ears bleed!"

Above them in the rafters, Erik watched the scene, enraged. That cow Carlotta! The woman was nothing but a bully to Christine, secretly jealous that she possessed a talent the diva could never have. She needed to be taught a lesson for her insolence. They all did! The managers were just as bad! With their disdainful, blaming looks! Poor Christine! She should not have to fight the battle he himself had started! His mind began to reel with ideas, some sort of attestation to his presence, a harmless accident or a prank, something to end Carlotta's huffed tantrum and remind her of her place, but before he could dare act, in the very next moment, he was stunned to silence.

"And look at her," Carlotta was stridently saying to Piangi. "She is nothing but a filthy whore! She prostitutes herself to the Vicomte," the diva chuckled as she spoke, "and likely she is bedding the ghost as well!"

That was it! Christine suddenly leapt to her feet and spun around to face Carlotta, coldly snapping, "You pompous, evil woman! You are bitter and jealous of anyone you presume to be a threat to your high and mighty throne. I have had to endure your insults ever since I arrived at this opera house, and I will _not_ permit them anymore. You want to break me and make me feel worthless with your words; well, I will not let you! And if you ever call me a whore again, I will all-out, fists-bared attack you, and I don't give a damn how unladylike that is!" With a huff of satisfaction, Christine spun back around and took her seat again, noting the aghast looks on the faces of her managers and fellow cast mates with a certain amount of pleasure.

Up in the rafters, Erik chuckled to himself. She had certainly put Carlotta in her place! Even still, Christine sat taller and more confident, and Erik knew the overwhelming desire to kiss her hard with his pride.

The remainder of the managers' meeting went by smoothly with no more outbursts or groans of discontent. Rigorous schedules were put forth to get the show ready to open in only two weeks before finally, the cast was given a brief break for lunch.

As Christine rose from her seat, grateful to be allowed to relax her confident countenance, she slyly peered up to the rafters and caught the eye of her masked angel. He raised his hands in mock applause and with a glowing grin, lipped out the word "Bravo". And she beamed under his pride.

But he was not the only witness to her bravery. As she moved toward the edge of the stage, she saw the Vicomte rushing to meet her and giving her no time to make an escape.

"Christine Daaé," he called with a laugh as he approached, "I didn't know you had it in you to be so…fiery, I guess is the best word for it."

Christine was immediately on her guard; she couldn't say why exactly, but intuition screamed that something was amiss. "Neither did I," she replied, keeping her distance.

"It was a spectacular scene!" Raoul exclaimed with excitement. "I thought that Carlotta's eyes would bulge out of her head!"

"Yes." In the back of her mind, she was remembering Erik's suspicions about the Vicomte. Raoul had indeed seen her with Erik at the ball…. Did he now know the rest of their secrets as well?

The Vicomte's attempted lightness abruptly transformed to resolved and somber. "Christine, I want to speak with you…someplace more private, …where we won't be overheard by anyone." His eyes were casting furtive glances to the shadows of the wings as if he expected someone…or something to be watching.

"I…I don't think that a good idea," she was trying to protest, but he had already captured her hand in a firm hold.

"Come on, Lotte," he pushed, using his childhood name for her as if it would win his case. "Just a few minutes. You owe me that."

Did she? In her mind, she was remembering the boy from her youth, her first girlish crush, her hero. And then when she had seen him again in her life with those memories still alive and a part of her, she had perhaps urged him on, made him think that his affections were returned. It had been too easy when he had always been the acceptable choice and had given her just the excuse she had needed to deny her true feelings for Erik. It had been terribly unfair of her. Maybe she did owe him something….

"All right," she weakly conceded, ceasing to struggle and letting him pull her from the stage. Before they arrived in the wings, Christine cast a pleading glance up at Erik as he watched intently from the rafters. Through that look alone, she begged him to follow, and he gave a quick nod, understanding even without the words, and on silent feet, hurried through the rafters after them.

Raoul was scanning every dark corner and every open doorway fearfully, and Christine thought him ridiculous never to have considered glancing up above them. If he had, he might have caught sight of the edge of Erik's black cloak or a flash of the white mask. But the Vicomte only kept his inspection low as he brought Christine through the last door of the hallway; she knew immediately that he was taking her to the roof.

Up steep staircases they climbed, one after another, with no doors to lead anywhere save the one at the very top. When they finally reached it, Raoul yanked her through, closing it abruptly again behind them. Foolish man! He likely thought that the phantom stuck to the cellars and the dark catacombs. And with that ridiculous assumption, of course, the roof seemed the safest place for them. Christine wanted to mock the very idea; heaven or hell, her angel would come for her.

The Vicomte had released her now that they were in the daylight, and Christine rubbed at her palm and fingers, sore from his tight grip. Her eyes casually wandered the snow-covered rooftop with its oversized stone statues, and even though she caught not a single sign of Erik, she had no doubt of his presence; the very thought made her calm.

"Now," she began, facing the Vicomte with annoyed hands on her hips, "are you going to tell me what this is all about?"

Raoul's panicked gaze was darting from side to side. "Do you think that we are safe here? Are we far enough away?"

"Whatever are you talking about?"

His wandering eyes landed on her shape, and abruptly rushing to stand before her, he caught her by her upper arms and stared critically. "Is it you?"

Christine did not struggle, only met his stare confidently and insisted with irritation, "Of course it's me! You're acting crazy! What is wrong with you?"

But he would not cease. "I can't tell anymore. Is it really Christine staring out from those blue eyes?"

"Who else would it be? You're being ridiculous!"

Straightening, he reluctantly released her and revealed, "Meg came to see me yesterday."

"Oh?" Erik had been right. And even though she wanted to curse Meg's interference, she knew that she couldn't.

"She told me, Christine," Raoul went on, shaking his head somberly. "She told me what it is that is courting you."

"_It_, as you so rudely call him, is Erik," she argued. "And he is a good man, Raoul."

"A good man! Meg told me that he is your resident phantom, that he has the blackest of crimes on his soul."

"Erik's sins are his own," she interrupted, her temper flaring in her eyes. "They do not change who he is or his heart. Why won't either of you trust my judgment?"

He was staring at her again so intently that it was as though he was trying to seek her soul in her eyes, and she shifted uncomfortably beneath such scrutiny. After another long moment of such examination, he replied, "Meg thinks that he has bewitched you, stolen your mind and your free will."

"Well, that is absurd," Christine snapped, leaning purposely closer and inviting the Vicomte's stare. "You know me, Raoul; you knew me as a child and now as an adult. You should be able to clearly see that Erik is the man I love freely and with my whole heart and soul. This bewitching that you and Meg speak of is a ridiculous means to justify what you don't want to accept. I love Erik, and he loves me. And that is the truth and the reality of the situation."

"I almost believe you," Raoul replied, shaking his head again. "His spell is quite good, but I know you, Christine. I know that you could never in your right mind allow a twisted murderer into your heart. It has to be a trickery of some sort."

"Listen to yourself!" she shouted back at him. "What you're talking about doesn't exist! Erik is a genius, not a magician!"

"He has to be! To make someone like you love him." Raoul grew silent for a moment, debating whether or not to continue. Finally, after a huffed breath, he softly confided, "Meg said that he wears the mask because he is horribly deformed. Is that true?"

The words, an answer, _any_ answer, caught in the back of her throat. What could she say? Could she lie to Raoul? Did she _want_ to lie to Raoul? Such a question! A rash wave of anger flooded through her that the Vicomte dared to ask such a thing! It was as intimate a question to her as any other could be! And it was surely not his right to know anything of Erik's terrible misfortune!

Raoul took her choked silence as his affirmation. "It is true," he concluded for himself with definite certainty. "Oh, Christine! And that ugly freak put his hands on you like that at the ball! I'll kill him!"

Blue eyes wide, she grabbed on to the sleeve of his suit jacket in a viselike hold. "No! Raoul, don't even consider such a thing!"

"Not defend your honor?"

His gallantry made her laugh. Honor? What honor? She had very willingly and eagerly given Erik her honor! "You saw Erik and I at the ball, so then you must have seen that it was I that kissed him."

"Yes, I saw! _Everyone_ saw!" Raoul's expression was laced in horror. "The bastard! He tricked you to do that, didn't he? He made you brazenly throw yourself at him."

"You can think whatever you please!" she snapped back. "But _I_ kissed Erik, of my own free will and desire. And if you won't believe what you know to be true, that's your choice. I have made my decision, and it is my own, and you have no right to interfere."

"Christine," the Vicomte tried to assuage, extending his hand, but she leapt beyond his reach.

"Don't touch me, Raoul." In some small way, she felt guilty when she saw the pained rejection on his face. It was that guilt that inspired her warning. "And don't go after Erik, Raoul. Leave us be. If you seek him out, you are putting your welfare in jeopardy, and I won't be able to save you."

"I can take care of myself if I must against your disfigured suitor," Raoul insisted coldly. "I will not lose you to him when the bastard is using you in this way. He has your mind so twisted up that you would dare defend him. A _murderer_, Christine! And he's killing everything that is you!"

The next few moments went by in a whirl. Without impetus or provocation, Raoul suddenly grabbed her and yanked her hard up against himself.

"What are you doing?" she shrieked, struggling, but he was stronger and kept her in his grasp. "Let me go!"

"No!" he insisted. "My Christine is still in there, trapped behind all of his lies and tricks. _She_ would never refuse me!"

Without a word or explanation, the Vicomte forced his lips to hers, kissing her hard and unyielding as she squirmed and fought to free herself. In the very next breath, she caught a glimpse of her angel swooping down from one of the large, stone statues with his dark cloak billowing behind him, like a vulture diving down upon his prey.

Without gentleness or care, Erik pried Raoul away, throwing the ignorant boy to the snow-covered floor. The Vicomte tried to recollect himself, but he was frozen in his place, staring at Erik's masked shape in horror.

Keeping half an eye on the him lest he dare try to attack, Erik turned to Christine and gently stroked her cheek. "Are you all right?"

She was trembling all over; she couldn't help it, but she gave him a nod. "Now that my dark angel has come to my rescue."

"Fiend!" Raoul hissed as he rose to his feet, brushing snow from his rich suit.

"You are in no position to throw insults, Monsieur Vicomte." Erik's tone was so cold, so hate-filled that Christine placed a hand atop his arm out of fear that he would then and there kill Raoul without a second thought. His glance went from that small hand to her blue, loving eyes, and only for her sake did he let his rage subside.

"You are lucky for the moment, de Chagny," Erik told him, looming menacingly near to the jilted boy with calculated steps. "I am feeling generous enough to spare your pathetic life. But if you _ever_ touch Christine again in any manner, you might not walk away so fortunate. She is mine."

Raoul peered at Christine, and to his appalled horror, he saw the pleased grin on her lips. As if she delighted in being that monster's property!

"Now get out of my opera house," Erik commanded in a roar, and without hesitation, the terrified Vicomte nearly tripped as he fled to the stairwell.

As soon as the rooftop door closed again behind him, Christine was gathered into Erik's arms, and she burrowed her face in the crook of his neck as she breathed his familiar, comforting scent deeply into her lungs.

"I should have killed him; I should have killed him," Erik was mumbling as he caressed her silken hair protectively. "How dare he force himself on you? How dare he?"

Only she could have heard the twinge of fear beneath the layers of rage, the 'what if's', the gratitude that he had been near enough to come to her aid. Fear was not an emotion common to him, and it was fear that made him hold her a bit tighter and more possessively, as if he could swallow her tiny frame completely with his own and therefore bear any trauma himself in her stead.

Sighing sadly as he continued to stroke her hair, he asked, "Are you still certain that you do not wish to leave? We could be gone by nightfall and go anyplace in the world that you wished."

Christine could still feel the pressure of Raoul's rough kiss against her lips, and shuddering with a newborn disgust for her former friend, she actually found herself considering Erik's proposal. How could she have ever believed that she could make Raoul accept Erik? It was her own folly that had put her in such a horrible situation; she had trusted Raoul too much.

But after a moment of thought, she abruptly shook her head. "No, Erik," she replied, pressing her cheek to his chest. "I will not have us frightened away from our home because of Raoul. And besides, what of your opera? We are about to have our first rehearsal, and I know how much it means to you to hear and see your opera on the stage."

"Curse the opera! You mean much more to me."

"I know." She drew back enough to meet his passionate gaze. "And I adore you for that, but the world needs to hear your music, and I am determined to make that happen."

"But the Vicomte -"

"Ah," she interrupted, clamping her palm over his partially concealed lips. "Raoul is not a worry for us. If he is at all intelligent, he will heed your warning, and if not, …then my guardian angel will keep me safe from any sort of harm. How blessed I am to have an angel that always watches over me!"

As she removed her hand, he reaffirmed, "Always."

"Then, angel mine, all we need to concern ourselves with is performing your opera exactly as you have envisioned it."

"Christine," he breathed with endless affection as he cupped her cheek in one of his palms. "I want to carry you home and make love to you for hours."

The smile that his words brought slowly faded to disappointment as she sadly sighed, "I still have a rehearsal to attend. …But as soon as Reyer says we are finished, I expect you to keep your word."

"Only too happily." Giving her hair one more caress, he reluctantly said, "Come. I will take you back through my own passages lest our friend the Vicomte is still lingering in the stairwell."

"All right." Cuddling herself in close to Erik's body, she walked across the snow-covered rooftop with him to his secret entrance hidden inside one of the overly large statues where no one would ever find it, and with great reluctance, she returned below just in time for rehearsal to begin.


	15. Chapter 15

A special thank you to everyone who has taken so much time to read my story! These are the last couple of chapters, and I am thrilled to be posting them for you! I hope that you have enjoyed it, and all of the positive feedback has definitely made me happy that I finally went through with posting it and didn't leave it buried in a closet somewhere. Thank you so much! :)

* * *

There was not even an inkling of a consensus among the cast after their initial read-through of _Don Juan Triumphant_. The more conservative sort who had been performing for a long time and were accustomed strictly to the classics thought _Don Juan_ scandalous, lewd, and distasteful. They made their abhorrence quite evident, none as loudly as La Carlotta, who insisted after each scene how terrible the work was. But the rest, those who were younger, more open-minded and appreciative of the always changing face of the world's music saw how ingenious and wonderful the score was, intermixing new methods of part writing with the old and exceeding terms of common practice. Christine even caught Reyer marveling over some of the musical passages, mumbling his awe to himself as he studied the way Erik resolved a particular chord or how intricately he had crossed parts.

Over the next few days, rehearsals were exhaustively intense. With only two weeks until the opening, everything had to be quickly learned and blocked between a myriad of costume fittings. There was no longer the time to dwell on people's opinions or their roles, not with so much to do and prepare.

And yet even amidst the chaos of a life of performance, Christine still found herself in every moment savouring the phenomenal role Erik had written for her. There was one particular part, an aria in the final act that brought tears to her eyes every time she sang it. Whenever they arrived at that scene, it seemed that the entire cast quit what they were doing to watch her sing with silent awe as from above, Erik gazed upon her with tears gathering in his eyes, unconsciously lipping out the lyrics he had written with her. And one glance at him overwhelmed Christine as she realized how much it meant to him to be able to hear the notes and chords brought to life and at last know some ounce of credit for a lifetime too full of pain, rejection, and sorrow.

The opera was a masterpiece, a work of art really. And yet in the back of her mind as she listened and sang her part, she knew a certain sadness. It was growing more and more evident to her that Erik had written the role of Don Juan for himself. As Piangi warbled out the lines, nearly massacring them, she could hear an echo of Erik's voice in her head singing them to perfection. One section in particular, a duet between her and Don Juan, had clearly been composed for her and Erik. It was dark and passionate, sensual, and at times blatantly sexual in the very same vein that their own relationship was, and as she sang it with Piangi, she could hear Erik's voice singing such erotic things to her, bringing a shiver down her spine and a flush to her body.

But it could only ever be in her mind. Every night after rehearsal ended, Erik came for her and brought her to his home where for another hour or so, they engrossed themselves in the music and polished any places that had been less than perfect during the day's practice. But to Christine's disappointment, he never sang with her, never slipped into the role of Don Juan to sing all of his impassioned lyrics. He only ever helped her with her part as if he dared not accept the pleasure of joining their voices. So she was left solely to imagine it, to play his voice in her inner ear and fantasize a different scene entirely, the scene as it was meant to be.

Perhaps it was the passion of the music overcoming her or perhaps it was merely a result of the confidence loving Erik had given her, but later that week, she had an idea that her once chaste self would never have entertained. With an excited giggle that seemed to continuously be fluttering in her throat, she hurried to meet Erik after rehearsal with a small valise in tow.

"What in the world have you got with you?" he asked upon meeting her within the sacred confines of her mirror.

Fighting to keep a truthful demeanor, she replied, "A few costuming details that I need your decision about."

His brow furrowed with annoyance. "I gave my managers extensive outlines for the costumes. There should be no decisions needed."

"You did, …but for a few of the pieces, there were some tiny choices to be made, …you know, similar fabrics to choose between and the like. It will only take a moment of your time, Erik." She flashed him her sweetest, most innocent look, knowing how convincing she could be.

Being unable to deny her would be his downfall; he was sure of it! All he could do under her brilliant blue eyes was nod to whatever request she could have as he did now, like some sort of blundering idiot!

Arriving at his home, Christine insisted that he await her in the living room, telling him that she would change so that he could see the costume on her, and with a reluctantly impatient sigh, he did as he was bid.

In her room, Christine stood before her vanity mirror, admiring her reflection as she put the finishing touches on her appearance. She had borrowed a few of the random discarded items from the dancer's wardrobe and had assembled a very enticing outfit. She felt brave to be daring to wear such scanty attire, but simply the thought of Erik's reaction made her determined.

Black was her color of choice, and provocative as could be, she wore a lace chemise and a pair of dancer's shorts, meant to be worn beneath the ballerina's layers of tulle just in case. Scandalous indeed!

Practicing a gracefully alluring, dancer's pose before the glass of the mirror, she couldn't help but feel attractive and womanly, not caring any more that ladies did not behave like prostitutes. She was starting to see more and more how boring and stuffy it was to be a proper lady and was wholeheartedly deciding to reject it.

One final touch. Christine quickly yanked the pins from her hair, releasing the heavy mass of curls and fingering them to perfection as they hung like a curtain down her back and over her shoulders. Laughing with anticipation, she blew her reflection a kiss and hurried out of her room.

"Erik?" she called well before arriving at the living room doorway. "You didn't fall asleep, did you?"

"No," he called back, seated on the floor as he watched for her. "Although you're certainly taking long enough! We still have a lot of work to do tonight on that quartet from the second act, and…." Erik's words evaporated from his mind before they even met his lips as she appeared in the doorway.

Christine tossed her curls and raised her brows, questioning and innocent. She had never seen his eyes so wide or so stunned; he looked as though he wanted to say something, perhaps finish his uncompleted sentence, but he was dumbstruck, his lips forming some syllable but no sound actually coming out. Shock faded abruptly into blatant desire, the flames flashing in his mismatched eyes brighter than the ones leaping in the fireplace. With an utterly slow languidness, he trailed his searing gaze down and back up the length of her, taking in every detail.

Suddenly, as if some modicum of rationale burst through the layers of hunger, he firmly stated, "I _forbid_ you to wear that onstage!"

"Oh no, this performance is for you alone, _ange_," she replied, taking one step and then another into the room toward him.

"Where…where did you get that outfit?" he stammered out. He thought to rise, but his legs would not seem to do his bidding so he had no choice but to remain seated.

"You don't like it?" she asked with a playful pout.

"I didn't say that."

"Oh, then you _do_ like it," she concluded happily, halting in her steps a fair distance away. When he attempted to reach a hand out to touch her, she leapt back. "No touching yet…."

Perhaps it was his obvious pleasure with her appearance that was making her feel so suddenly light-headed and giddy, but she wasn't yet ready for her game to be over.

Humming softly, with her arms held out at her sides, she made a pirouette so that he could see every bit of her.

"You are _so_ beautiful," he breathed hoarsely as he admired her. "So tempting, so enchanting, so sensual. I could look at you forever."

"Only look?" she teased.

"Touch, as soon as you'll let me." Erik raised his brows suggestively, but kept his hands in fists at his sides, allowing her control.

She laughed, weightless bubbles dancing in her head, making her whimsical and impulsive.

"You still haven't told me where you acquired such a costume," he prodded.

"The dancer's closet," she replied with singsong merriment.

"Ah yes, my little ballerina. Although I can't say that I recall you dancing in anything so revealing." His ravenous gaze was being drawn down the smooth column of her throat and to the glimpse he was given of her breasts.

"Maybe not, but our costumes were a bit…disreputable at times." A mischievous gleam glowed on her face. "Did you ever desire me when I was a ballerina, dancing in those scanty costumes?"

It was as if she could see the memory of it as it assaulted his mind, and he huskily whispered, "You have no idea."

"Oh?" Christine eagerly pushed. "Tell me then."

"You expect me to recount old tales with you standing before me like that?"

"Yes," she replied, unarguable in her tone. "And if you don't, then all you'll do for the rest of the night is look."

With a huff of acceptance, he said, "I didn't see you when you first came to the opera."

Though it was ridiculous and she chastised herself for it, she was strangely hurt by his revelation. "Oh, well, I blended in with all of the others, I guess."

"Silly girl," he chided. "You would stand out in a crowd of millions to me. I only meant that at that time, I was buried away in this house with no thought ever to return to that world."

Christine crossed her arms over her chest, her desire put aside for the moment and a seriousness taking over. "Then why did you?"

Erik smiled fondly with the memory. "Because one night I heard an angel singing above my head, the most beautiful voice I had ever heard, yet so sad, so utterly broken. I had to see who it belonged to, and I came across a little ballerina alone in a vacant opera house, singing and crying on a dark, empty stage."

"You were there that night?"

He nodded. "I was there. I watched you sing…, and I loved you that very moment. That was the first time I saw you, and I never left you alone after that." Tenderness erupted within him with the image, the one that he had carried with him every second of every day since then, but he pushed it away and returned to her game. "And, yes, if you must know, I desired you. I'd watch you dance, watch your every graceful movement, every curve and line of your body, and I'd want you so badly."

Though her mind and her heart still dwelled on the tenderness of his story, her body was reacting to his more sensual words. The very idea that he had been watching her all that time and desiring her in such a manner amazed her. If it were any other man, or if she had learned this back when she saw him only as her disfigured teacher, then his words would most definitely have been disconcerting, but at this exact moment when she was loving him so completely and knew that she always would, it was an incredible blessing.

Lowering her arms from her body, the provocative, confident aura sweeping through her once again, she questioned, "And did you imagine what you would do to me?"

Only Christine could have asked him such a question and have it sound so pure and so innocent. "In extensive detailing. Now mind you, I _never_ believed any of it would become my reality. I had a farfetched hope only to gain your acceptance and maybe compassion; anything more than pity would have been an achievement. I assumed that I would suffer my desires unrequited for the rest of my existence, but that did not prevent me from fantasizing over what I could do in my mind. There you could be anything I wanted, _feel_ anything I wanted."

"Hmm." A deep meditation furrowed her brow before she dared ask, "And in your fantasies, did I ever dress like this for you?"

Shaking his head, Erik replied, "No, I may have made you bold, but never _this_ bold. Do not mistake my meaning. I like you bold."

She already knew that without the reassurance; she had the vivid memory of his initial expression when she had first walked into the room to remind her. "I'm pleased that I exceed my fantasy self."

"In every way."

Brushing stray curls over her shoulder with a slight flick of her wrist, she continued, "And did my fantasy self do everything you asked of her?"

Erik wasn't sure what answer she wanted to hear and stammered, "Well, …yes, but that wasn't real."

"It is now…. Tell me what you want me to do, Erik. Let me make your fantasies come true."

He wanted to argue that she already had, but her game was too intriguing to deny. Raising one brow as he eyed her languidly, he let himself take the authority and commanded, "Turn around again. Very slowly."

Eager to comply, she lazily made a circle, her arms out as they had been before. Without even having to try, she held the grace of a trained ballerina. As she came back around and met his eye, she flashed him an alluring grin.

Keeping his gaze locked on her, he lifted himself into his chair, not yet prepared to go to her. Oh no, not yet. His detailed fantasies were being drawn forth from his memory, fantasies from those days when he had been only a silent observer in her life.

Eyeing her like a ravenous wolf, Erik commanded with an air of complete control, "Dance for me."

Christine lifted one dark brow at such a request, but made no protest. With only a brief instant of hesitation, she complied, languidly bringing her arms up over her head and dropping her hips in a slight sway. Motion and instinct took over, following a rhythm in her head. Her inspiration was the new choreography that the dancers had been learning for Erik's opera. It was a modernized ballet, bearing influences of the other, less proper dances being done in every informal setting in the city. Much of her free time over the past days had been spent curiously watching the ballerinas practice, her dancer's mind learning the steps with them until she could play it like the lyrics of a song precisely in her memory. She created that very dance right now for Erik to perfection.

Leaning back in his chair, Erik watched her every movement, feasting on the lithe and agile precision behind her gentle grace. Though in his mind, she had always been a born singer, he did not deny that she was a wonderful ballerina, a talent that she had not been born with but had worked her hardest at perfecting. And this dance! He knew it from the snippets of rehearsals he had spied on, a dance that was more provocative than any that had ever been performed on that stage.

Approaching him with calculated steps, Christine languidly lowered herself onto his lap, fitting her hips against his as she asked, "Is that what you had in mind?"

"Exactly," he replied hoarsely as his fingers gripped tightly to the armrests of his chair to prevent grabbing her as he so yearned to.

"And…do you like when I dance for you?"

"Dance is seduction, Christine; the motion of your body, every movement you make, they call to me to touch you, to trace every line and every curve of you, to join your rhythm."

Lifting one brow, she purposely swept her hips lower to lightly graze his aching body, and dancing was immediately forgotten as the throbbing hardness of him stole away all thought but fervent need.

"I want you," she stated plainly. Her hands were already reaching for his mask. The moment that it was discarded, he met her kiss, devouring her as she weaved her arms around his neck.

Hardly a second later, he stood, lifting her light weight with him, her legs wrapping around his waist as he brought her to the couch and lay her down on the soft cushions, burying her beneath him. His eager hands extended down either side of her, his fingers spanning over the smooth exposed flesh of her thighs.

Erik was not gentle with her; when at last, they had discarded clothing in a delirious fever, he thrust deeply into her without thought of gentleness. But she was only encouraging his roughness, lifting her hips to meet his every thrust and raking her nails down his back under that haze of desire.

Her pleasure came in a great wave that washed over her, but it was after her passion was sated that she knew ecstasy. It was when her senses returned from that delirious state, when she was aware of only Erik atop her without the passion to cloud her head, when the sole focus of her mind was the union of their bodies and the harsh pressure of his every thrust. She held him tighter then; she never wanted the moment to cease, wishing that the sensation could be buried away in a treasure chest to keep for all eternity. The pleasure of her passion was wonderful, but this, this knowing, this awareness that came after the ecstasy, was even more incredible.

When he finally reached his climax, she watched his face, studied his every expression, memorized the look of ecstasy that overcame those twisted features. In a strange way, she was humbled by this, by the fact that she could bring him such delight, that she would be the only one ever to satisfy him in that way and know this moment with him.

As he recovered and a violent shudder sped down his spine, she kissed the hollow of his throat and whispered, "I love you, Erik."

Erik pushed stray curls from her cheek, traced her jaw, outlined her lips, tapped her nose; he couldn't stop touching her. "I love you, my Christine."

Minutes ticked by, but they remained locked in that embrace, content and too exhausted to move. Even though they did not speak, they shared a thought, a hope for a million more nights exactly like that one and a future of only brightness and good things.

* * *

The next morning, Christine left Erik's house in a rush, already late for rehearsal; it had been only too easy to oversleep in his arms. He had wanted to walk through the catacombs with her, but she had insisted that he remain and meet her later, and he hadn't the strength to win the argument.

Arriving in her world, she grabbed a discarded ribbon from her vanity and gathered up her loose curls, tying them at her nape as she left the room and scurried down the hall to the echo of Reyer's voice in the theatre.

Before she could make it to the stage, a hand caught her arm and yanked her into one of the other dressing rooms.

"What…?" Christine's cry of annoyance trailed off as her eyes fell upon her assailant. "Meg!"

The little ballerina nodded weakly, shifting uncomfortably on her feet. "Can I speak with you for a moment?"

Well, she was already late; what was another ten minutes? Christine glanced around the small room, noting that they were alone and that Meg, who had not approached her in days, had fear-filled eyes. "What's wrong, Meg?" she asked with genuine concern.

It was as though hesitation vanished as with a rush of released emotion, she replied, "Oh, Christine, I'm so very sorry for everything! You have always been like a sister to me, and I have done everything to avoid you these past weeks."

Christine caught the ballerina's trembling hand in both of her own. "Oh, Meg, it's all right. I'm sorry as well -"

"I've done something so awful," Meg interrupted hurriedly, her pretty face creased with guilt. "I told the Vicomte about your teacher; it's my fault. It's all my fault."

"Meg-"

"No!" Meg brought her free hand up to clasp Christine's as well. "I know about what happened on the roof, …what he tried to do to you…."

"How do you know about that?"

Meg shook her head miserably. "He told me, and he tried to justify what he did. He tried to tell me that forcing you to kiss him was acceptable and that he would have done more if your teacher had not arrived and attacked him."

_Done more…._ Christine wasn't sure that she wanted to know what Raoul's idea of "more" was, a shudder racking her spine. She had never considered him as dangerous, but if he was deluded enough to believe her to be under a spell, to believe that if she was in her right mind, she would be his, then there was little that he wouldn't do to win her back.

"But I'm not a fool," Meg continued just as disgusted as Christine. "I think he'd use any excuse to make himself the hero set to rescue you…. It's all my fault!"

"No, Meg, no," Christine replied soothingly. "You only did what you thought to be right. You thought I was in danger, and I daresay that if I were in your place, I'd have done the same. As you said, we've been like sisters, and we must protect one another. But I hope you've now seen that Erik is no enemy. He is a good man."

Meg lowered her eyes to their joined hands, softly saying, "I'm not sure that I can ever fully believe that myself. I don't trust him, …but I trust you, Christine. It was ridiculous of me to think you to be under a spell. You've just seen something in him that none of us can or want to. …I cannot approve of your relationship, but I do accept it."

With a sigh of relief, Christine hugged her little friend. "Thank you, Meg, thank you."

Meg drew back, but her eyes did not mirror Christine's happiness. "Don't thank me. …Something terrible is going to happen…."

A cloud seemed to settle over Christine's heart. "What do you mean?"

The ballerina shook her head somberly, near tears. "I don't know; I don't know. Raoul has something planned. He's been meeting with the managers these last few days in secret. When I confronted him, he refused to tell me what they're doing, only that it will take care of their 'phantom problem'. It must be something awful, Christine…. It's all my fault! If I'd have never told him anything…."

Christine's mind was reeling as she distractedly replied, "This is not your fault, Meg…. I'm grateful that you told me."

"But what are you going to do?"

What _was_ she going to do? She considered her options for a long moment before making an unenthusiastic decision. "I…I guess I will go and see Raoul."

"Alone? You can't go alone!"

"Well, I can't take Erik," Christine told her resolutely. "His plan will be to attack first and ask questions later." At her friend's wide-eyed response to her words, she explained, "To protect me. Erik _always_ puts my welfare first…. I can't tell him, not until I know what Raoul's planning."

"Well, I'm going with you," Meg insisted. When Christine tried to protest, the little ballerina held up her hand. "You won't talk me out of it, not after what he tried to do the last time. I am the cause of all of this. Let me attempt to set things right."

"All right," she conceded. "We'll go during our midday break. Erik will think that we are only going to eat and will not follow." It was clearly evident on her friend's face that she was hesitant to accept Erik's seemingly bizarre behavior, but the ballerina only nodded without a word.

"And now I have a verbal lashing from Reyer to endure," Christine added lightly even if it wasn't an exaggeration. Giving her friend a smile, she hurried from the dressing room toward the stage.

* * *

Since the incident on the roof, the Vicomte de Chagny had not attended any more rehearsals at the opera house, leaving Christine uncertain of his whereabouts. It was a great relief when the de Chagny maid told them that he was indeed at home and showed them into the parlor to await him.

"Do you really think you can stop him?" Meg asked as soon as the maid left.

Christine shrugged. "I doubt it. In his mind, I hurt him very badly. No, I'm more concerned about finding out what exactly he is planning."

A few minutes later, the parlor doors were opened, and Raoul entered with excitement in his every step.

"Christine!" he exclaimed as his eyes met hers. "I could hardly believe it when I was told you were here. I've missed you so much! I…." His words trailed off, his smile fading when he noticed Meg. "Did you feel it necessary to bring a chaperone? Are you so afraid to be alone with me after what happened?"

In the back of her mind, she was recalling Meg's words about how Raoul would have 'done more' had Erik not come to her rescue. She was immediately grateful for Meg's company. "You were…not quite yourself the last time I saw you."

"No, I wasn't. I…." Raoul took a step nearer to her, his hand reaching for hers, and as she instinctively backed closer to Meg, hurt flashed in his eyes. "I…I behaved like a brute. I…was out of my mind with the need to save you, to bring you back from that monster's spell. You know me, Christine; you know that I would never willingly hurt you. That kiss was entirely harmless. It was the first thing I thought to do. I apologize if I overstepped the boundaries of our friendship."

"_If_ you did?" she retorted.

Raoul held up his hands in pacification. " All right, all right, I _know_ I did, and I apologize. Just please try to understand the impetus of my actions, and maybe then you can forgive me. It would be utter torture to think that I destroyed our friendship and lost my dearest friend in all the world."

Christine believed that he was genuinely remorseful, but she was also well aware that much of his argument was only sweet talk to win her over. Reaching behind her, she caught Meg's hand and gave it a quick squeeze in a secret urging to play along. Drawing upon all of her skills as an actress, she let her guarded expression gradually soften into a hesitant smile.

"Your dearest friend," she repeated. "We have been friends for a long time, haven't we?"

"A lifetime at least," Raoul replied, encouraged. "I don't want to lose you because I made a mistake, an error in judgment, if you will. Say that you can forgive me, and let us end this ridiculousness between us."

"I…it will take time. But I think I can forgive you."

Elated relief overcame him with a blissful sigh. "Oh, thank you, Christine. You will not be disappointed; I promise."

She couldn't reply to that, intuitively knowing that he was wrong. It was time to get what she had come for and leave. "And now that that unpleasantness is behind us, I must talk to you about something terribly important."

"Of course. What is it? Has something happened?"

_Forgive me, Erik_, she thought to herself, but there was only one way to get what she needed. The Vicomte's concern for her, a concern that went far beyond being friendly, would be the means she required.

"Not yet," she answered with a hint of sadness. "But it is only a matter of time."

"Is it that man, Christine?" the Vicomte demanded. "Has he done something to you?"

Christine was shaking her head. "It's what he may do that frightens me. First, you do know that there was never any spell, don't you? It was only the infatuation of a student for her teacher. You do realize that, right? Spells like that don't exist, not even for Erik."

Raoul nodded, listening to her every word intently. "I know. I think I always knew; I used it as an excuse. I see now that you were only being naïve."

_Naïve?_ She was inwardly insulted even as she nodded her agreement. "Yes, naïve, a foolish, little girl enamored by the mystery and romance of it all…. But I am through playing that game; I am realizing the truth all of you were trying to make me see."

"Thank God!" Raoul rushed to stand before her, and it took every bit of her strength to force herself to remain in place and not recoil as he grabbed her hand.

"I prayed that you would come to your senses," Raoul continued, lifting her hand to his chest, his eyes bearing into hers. "He is a murdering freak; there can be nothing good in that."

Christine bit the inside of her lip to prevent herself from lashing out in Erik's defense. Thankfully, she knew reluctance would be construed as apprehensive fear. "You're right; you've always been right. I…I'm terrified of him, that I'll make him so angry that he'll hurt me…or even kill me." It took a modest amount of effort, but she was able to force a few tears, making her performance all the more believable. "His temper is uncontrollable; I am always on my guard that I shall say the wrong thing and make him angry. And when he's angry, he becomes violent."

"Oh, my poor Lotte." Raoul lifted his free hand to stroke her cheek. "It will all be over soon. I promise."

Christine feigned shock, her eyes widening. "What…what do you mean?"

The smile that lit his lips was so laden with pride and arrogance that Christine felt the urge to slap it off of his face. "The managers and I are taking care of him. So very soon, you will be safe from that monster's clutches."

Even as her stomach knotted with terror, she kept up her pretense. "Oh, Raoul. Truly?"

"Yes, truly. We have a plan that will get that disfigured freak out of our lives for good. He has been a burden on us all for too long."

A burden to Raoul; Christine wanted to laugh out loud. Raoul's only veritable grievance against Erik was that he had won Christine's heart and that was hardly an act worth murdering for.

With deep concern and fear-fringed eyes, Christine raised her own hand to cup his cheek. "Oh, Raoul, it's not a dangerous plan, is it? I couldn't bear to think of you getting hurt."

That was it! She knew it the moment that she had won, the instant before the Vicomte's plan came spilling out.

"I am in no danger," he replied. "But it is still a brilliant plan, my own idea. The _Don Juan_, the fiend's opera. He will be in attendance for its performance to see you sing. We will have armed guards hidden all over the theatre, including in his box. Their orders will be to shoot on my command."

Her mind was reeling with this news, desperately trying to accept and understand every detail, but she did not dare falter in her countenance. "That is brilliant indeed! You will save us all from his grasp."

Raoul was beaming. "I'm doing this only for you. I was literally sickened at the very thought of you with that monster. I knew I couldn't idly sit back and allow it."

"And you'll never know how grateful I am that you didn't." If he had not been so pompous, he would have seen that there was not even an inkling of gratitude in her eyes.

Even as the Vicomte was still engrossed in her, Christine turned to where Meg waited. "Is it time to return to rehearsal already?"

The little ballerina obediently nodded. "If we don't go now, we'll be late again."

Lifting her eyes back to the enamored Vicomte, she told him with feigned disappointment. "I must go."

"May I see you again?" Raoul hurriedly asked, refusing to release her hand yet.

"Soon," she answered. "When all of the games are over." With that, she pulled out of his grasp and forced herself to bestow a quick kiss to his cheek, and as he reveled over it, she grabbed Meg's arm and scurried out of the de Chagny mansion.

When the girls were on the street and out of harm's way, Meg commented, "Well, that was grotesque."

"Nauseating," Christine agreed. "It made me sick to my stomach to be so sweet. Have I been blind this entire time to not see who he really is?"

"Maybe you just wanted to believe so badly that he was still the boy you grew up with."

"Maybe…." Christine was silent for a long time as they walked arm in arm toward the opera, her thoughts in turmoil. Finally, when the rooftop statues were in view, she said, "Raoul wants me; he sees me as a trophy to be won. This is not about Erik or his crimes; it's about winning. …I thought when he was being so sweet to me all those weeks ago, that it was because of our past and maybe a little bit of infatuation on both of our parts, but it wasn't that at all, was it? It wasn't innocent; it was because he desires me and wants to own me. I foolishly trusted Raoul…. And now I have to find a way to make this right and keep Erik safe…."

"We'll find a way, Christine; we have to."

* * *

The rest of the afternoon, Christine was distracted and going through her scenes with empty and forced motion. When at last Reyer released them after running rehearsal late, she wearily walked to her dressing room and locked herself in. Without mustering up the strength to form a smile of greeting, she opened her mirror and entered the passage with the same grim expression. The moment the mirror closed behind her, a flame flickered, and the warm glow of an oil lamp surrounded her.

As soon as her eyes fell upon Erik, standing there, awaiting her with eager anticipation, she nearly flew to him, burying her face in his cloak. Erik stumbled slightly under the fierceness of her embrace, surprised but not at all displeased, and he immediately enfolded her in his arms. He did not say a word for a long time, only idly stroked the length of her spine, soothing her with touch alone. He knew in the pit of his stomach that something was wrong, horribly wrong, but he waited for her to speak, giving her solace without question.

Finally, Christine drew back, never abandoning the comfort of his embrace, and met his attentive eye. "I love you," she quietly told him. "You know that, don't you? That it is entirely genuine and true? That I have never lied to you about how I feel? Please tell me that you know that."

He slowly nodded. "Yes, I know."

Lowering her eyes with a modicum of shame, she revealed, "I went to see Raoul today."

"Oh?" he inquired, trying to keep the hurt from his voice. "Did you?"

"I had to." There was a solemnity around her that he was unaccustomed to seeing, as if her very thoughts were inwardly torturing her.

Terror arose within him as he fought to keep control over himself, stammering with the hint of frenzy in his voice, "What…what did he do to you?"

She immediately shook her head, wide-eyed. "Nothing; he didn't…. No, Erik, no. Meg was with me. He couldn't have…. It's not that."

"All right," he replied, still seeking restraint. "Then tell me what happened. Why did you go to him?"

In a long gush of words, the story came tumbling out of what Meg had said and how she had gone to the Vicomte and finally, the sordid details of his plan.

"Don't be angry, Erik," she begged at the end of her tale. "I had to do it. I had to make him believe that I was afraid of you so he would confide in me. It was the only thing I could think to do although it killed me to say such horrible lies."

His jaw was set in a firm line as he listened somberly to her story. When he spoke, it was tight and severe. "That damn, meddling boy! He can't simply accept defeat, can he? He's so determined to have you any way that he can, and that isn't even enough. He has to destroy my opera premiere as well."

Christine was shaking her head as if he was uttering nonsensical words. "The opera isn't really my primary concern; _you_ are…. Maybe we _should_ leave here, Erik, as you wanted to, start anew somewhere far away from Paris."

"No," he answered adamantly. "I will _not_ be chased away by that boy's idle threats."

"They're hardly 'idle threats'. He intends to _kill_ you!"

"Let him try! It would take a very competent man to accomplish that!"

"No," she protested, grabbing his arm and shaking it as if she could shake sense into him. "It would take one bullet…. Erik, I can't lose you."

Stroking her cheek with a tender smile creasing his entire face, he assured, "You won't. Christine, it is my dream to see you on that stage singing my opera, and I will not have it stolen by a spurned boy with a broken heart."

"That spurned boy is going to have a couple dozen armed guards behind him."

"I'm willing to take that chance."

His stubbornness was infuriating! Lowering her eyes miserably, she added, "And Raoul believes that I am in agreement with his plan, that I am terrified of you and wish you dead."

Erik encircled her waist and drew her back into his protective embrace. "Let him think what he wants. It is inconsequential; I already know I have your heart. Now un-furrow that brow. Worrying is not allowed when we have so little time together as it is. I will handle my own protection as I have been doing my entire life, so you have no cause for concern."

In the back of her mind, she tried to accept what he was saying, but she could not lift the weight that had settled over her heart. With a muffled cry, she hugged herself abruptly to him, clutching him as tight as she possibly could.

"You are a foolish man!" she practically shouted. "Stubborn and conceited! And if you honestly believe that I will suddenly quit worrying because you tell me to, then you are very wrong."

"I know." Closing his eyes, he let his hand entwine in her hair, cupping the back of her head. To himself, he would not lie; he _was_ worried, but his concern was for her welfare, not his own. Didn't the Vicomte see that his armed guards could accidentally shoot a bystander…or Christine? Dear Lord, if she were hurt, it would be just as much Erik's fault as the Vicomte's. Perhaps it was time to end this himself….

* * *

Late into the night, Erik slipped out of bed, taking great care not the rouse Christine. As he dressed, he gazed at her, watching her sleep, adoring her every breath with his eyes. It was images like this one that remained intact in the deepest part of his memory to be summoned forth like a picture show when he was not with her. There was this persistent remnant of disbelief that hung like a cloud in the air around her, this inability to fully accept that the picture he saw was real and not only a mirage. Everything before her had been so dark and tainted; she was a pure white light that radiated through even the blackest of places. Was it any wonder then that he was so terrified to lose her? So frightened to fall back into the dark alone? No. It would not happen; he would not let it.

Bending near, he pressed a light kiss to her forehead before rising with resolve and fastening the mask over his face. This ended tonight; he was not going to continue to play games that could get her hurt or killed, and the hell if he was going to sit around and wait for the Vicomte to make his move. That damn boy needed to be reminded who he was dealing with.

Like a black spectre carried on a bitter wind, Erik swept up out of the catacombs to the deserted city streets and on to the Vicomte's mansion.

It was no challenging feat to gain access into the house, not for an accomplished illusionist and part-time ghost anyway. The house was dark and quiet, the family and servants abed, and Erik glided on soundless feet up the staircase and down one of the hallways, seeking out his prey.

At the far end of the hall, one door was slightly ajar with the warm glow of firelight streaming out. Ah, so some insomniac soul was awake. Creeping close, Erik peered in through that small crack and surveyed the scene, a malicious smile curving the corners of his lips. Just what he was looking for….

Careful not to capture the attention of the sole occupant of the room, he snuck inside and quietly closed the door behind himself. It was the click of the lock sliding into place that finally gave him away.

Raoul de Chagny had been sitting in an armchair before the lit fireplace, a decanter of brandy within arm's reach when he raised his eyes to the door. Immediately, he felt his heart drop in his chest, anything he might have said getting choked back in his throat. That man, that demon, was smugly standing there, staring at him from behind the mask. What struck Raoul the most was the very aura surrounding him as if permeating from the long, black cloak he wore, …the power, the danger. The man's every breath was intimidating!

"One scream, and you'll be dead before they get here to save you," Erik warned with the hint of a challenge as if daring him to try.

"I wasn't going to scream," Raoul replied, stammering at first before adopting a seemingly brave countenance. "I…I may have given you the impression at our last meeting of being a coward, but I'm not. I fight my own battles, Monsieur."

"I'm sure you do."

The thick sarcasm in Erik's voice did not go unnoticed by the Vicomte, but he simply motioned to the table. "Brandy?"

"No, thank you. I didn't come here to share a drink." As he spoke, Erik slowly approached, noticing with a chuckle how the boy shrank back into the cushion of his chair no matter how unaffected he was pretending to be. "Relax, de Chagny. If I wanted to kill you, I would have done so already. Socializing is not my forte; I certainly wouldn't be suffering through it beforehand."

"Oh, …you want to talk?"

"Talk, threaten; whatever gets me what I want." Erik stared at the boy, noting with a modicum of satisfaction that he did not calm, instead tensely sitting at the farthest edge of his chair. Not a coward indeed!

"And…what is it you want?"

Erik shrugged nonchalantly. "A normal life, …a handsome face, …a house outside of the city in the sunlight, …a family with the woman I love…. I may not be able to have all of those things. My face, for instance, is not going to suddenly transform itself no matter how hard I pray and wish; I realized that long ago. But at this precise moment, some of my wishes are right within my grasp…. And yet obtaining them is entirely contingent on you."

"Me?"

"You stand in my way." Retaining his deviousness, Erik confidently took a seat in the empty armchair across from the Vicomte's. His body language alone was an unmentioned challenge. It was all a part of Erik's genius: to put himself blatantly in harm's way and insinuate a hidden means for a deadly attack. It worked perfectly on Raoul, who Erik saw quivered with poorly hidden fright.

"I…I don't know what you mean."

Erik bridged his fingers before him, and as if it was plain fact, stated, "I don't want to hate you, but I do. I don't want to kill you, but…." He let the threat trail off, inviting the Vicomte to finish it on his own.

"I don't want you to kill me either," Raoul agreed with a nervous chuckle, sitting as close as he could get to the edge of his chair.

"It can be avoided very easily on your part."

"How?"

"Call off your guards, end this ridiculous plan you have, and stay away from Christine."

Raoul held up his hands defenselessly and attempted to justify himself. "_She_ came to see _me_."

"I am well aware. She came to uncover your plot."

Shaking his head skeptically, Raoul insisted, "No, she came to me because she's terrified of you."

"And you believed she was telling you the truth?" As a sudden aside to himself with a burst of his pride, he marveled, "What a superb actress she is! I wish that I could take credit for her, but she was born talented."

Despite the hindering presence of that mask, Raoul could see the awe on the Erik's face; it was overwhelming his every feature. "If she is such a wonderful actress, how do you know it is not _you_ she's lying to?"

Snapping back to the present, Erik stared at him as if he had lost his mind. "Come now! Do you truly believe she, or any woman for that matter, would so quickly forgive a man for overstepping his boundaries as you did? You practically assaulted her, de Chagny, something I would have killed you for had Christine not been there to plead for your worthless life. Do you think that she'd ever come to you for help after that incident? She came to see you because she loves me so much that she would put herself in any danger she must to keep me safe."

The Vicomte was still reluctant to believe him. "She doesn't love you! How could she?"

Erik's jaw tightened as he fought to repress the urge to strangle the boy now and be done with it. "I don't care what you believe; your opinion is inconsequential. What I do care about is Christine's welfare. You _will_ put an end to this ridiculous scheme you and the managers have concocted."

"And why will I do that?"

"Because you're going to get someone hurt or killed. If you want to come after me, then come after me; don't shoot in a theatre full of innocent people."

"I realize it is not the safest approach, but your elusiveness leaves us few options, Monsieur."

Matching the Vicomte's sharp tone, Erik replied, "What have I possibly done to make you so determined to see me dead? Is this all because Christine chose me?"

"You're a murderer! Do I need any more reason than that?"

The very mention of his past made Erik cringe with shame and self-loathing. "You know nothing, Monsieur Vicomte, except the rumors of the opera house."

"Rumors!" Raoul exclaimed. "You have taken lives. I'd hardly call that fact a rumor."

"I won't deny what I've done, but those crimes are on my soul for God to judge, not you. _You_ are not responsible for what you perceive to be justice."

The Vicomte was silent for a moment, gazing to the fire in the hearth before slowly questioning, "And does Christine know what you've done?"

Erik nodded. "She knows every bit of it, and she loves me still." His mind drifted to her once again, a smile tingeing his lips. "Sometimes it is impossible for me to believe that she could know me so completely, so entirely and love me for myself. She is the most remarkable person that I've ever known."

"Yes, she is," the Vicomte quietly agreed, and Erik caught the hint of sadness in his voice. As he met Erik's eye, he spoke with candid honesty. "I am not a villain, Monsieur, or a vengeful, rejected suitor. I won't lie to you: I love her; I had hoped to marry her. So yes, it hurts. Yes, my heart is broken. Yes, in some way, the pain is made worse to know she chose _you_ over me. It was not for revenge that I went along with the managers; …it was for hope." Raoul paused, shaking his head with an ironic smile. "Hope can make a man do foolish things."

"I understand that more than you can possibly know." In his mind, Erik was remembering his own sins that were induced by hope, the games and manipulations under the guise of an angel in hopes of winning the love of a woman. "Hope is even more potent than love."

"It is…." Raoul slowly nodded and looked away as he dared to ask aloud, "She doesn't love me, does she?"

His question was so pathetic, so sad and pained that Erik truly pitied him for the first time. "No," he answered firmly. "She doesn't."

Another nod, and the Vicomte said, "I'll talk to the managers in the morning and force them to stop their plan."

"Oh, that won't be necessary. First thing in the morning, my managers will be finding themselves unemployed."

The Vicomte was too focused on a broken heart to question Erik and only nodded again.

That was how Erik left him, devoid of hope but better for it. As he arrived back at his home a little later, he thought of how fortunate he was that his own hopes had not been shattered as they very well could have been had Christine loved Raoul instead. Before that late night conversation, he had still held a twinge of envy for the Vicomte, but now envy had turned to sympathy as he realized just how close he had come to being in the Vicomte's place. If Christine hadn't been so strong and open-minded…. If he had been too ignorant and let his temper come between them…. If Fate had been cruel….

With a whisper of gratitude to no one in particular, Erik tossed his cloak and mask to the floor and slipped back beneath the covers of his bed beside the woman he loved, smiling in the darkness when she immediately snuggled against him even as she slept. Somewhere along the way without him even realizing it, hope had turned to bliss.


	16. Chapter 16

Erik never told Christine about his visit to the Vicomte; he only assured her that he had taken care of everything. Since the next day's rehearsal began with a letter from the opera's mysterious owner firing André and Firmin, she stopped asking questions, believing the letter was his way of ending the horror of their plot. Erik told her later that he meant to hire the new manager himself, and Christine could not help but be silently proud, seeing this as a very big step for a man who had only a month before been a complete recluse.

The opera was set to open in three days, and the cast was buzzing with the exhilaration that came along with it.

As rehearsal ended, Christine ran offstage, laughing with Meg and nearly shouting a conversation over the bustle of the departing cast around them.

"How can you stand it?" Meg was asking, trying not to be overheard even at the loud volume that she was speaking. "That scene in Act Three is positively seductive! And you have to act it with Piangi and have his big, sweaty hands all over you." The little ballerina made a face of disgust, and Christine giggled.

"Firstly, I'm acting a part," she replied with playful mocking as if the answer was entirely obvious. "That's what we stage people are supposed to be doing, remember?"

"Your ill-attempt at humor is atrocious!" Meg shouted back.

"All right, all right," Christine conceded, and leaning in near to her friend's ear so that she could lower her voice, she revealed, "I simply envision that it is Erik I am seducing."

Meg let out a shriek of laughter, softly replying, "You must be shameless with him then!"

"An absolute hussy!" Christine said it a little louder than she intended, and as she laughed at her folly, a hand caught her arm. Jumping with surprise, she flipped around to face her addressor with blushing cheeks. "Oh, Raoul!"

The Vicomte stood beside her, shifting and glancing about with obvious discomfort even as he jerked his hand back as if he was terrified that he had dared touch her. "Can I speak to you for a moment?"

Christine's good-humor had abruptly departed at the unexpected encounter, and glancing at Meg, she saw the ballerina's equaled wariness. "All right, …for a moment."

Meg caught Christine's arm, but Christine gave her a reassuring nod.

"If you need me, I'll be nearby," Meg replied, not caring if the Vicomte heard, and she shot him a suspicious glare before scurrying away.

"Meg needn't be so worried," Raoul said. "There are quite a few people around. If my intention had been to abduct you, I certainly wouldn't do it in such a populated area."

Though he had meant his comment as a joke, Christine's expression did not change. "What do you want, Raoul?"

"Only an answer to a question. I have to find out the truth for certain, or else I can never let it go. You lied to me at my house that day about being afraid of him, didn't you? …Or was it true?"

_Him_…. Raoul couldn't even bring himself to say Erik's name, Christine noted along with the weary lines that had settled in around the Vicomte's eyes. In some ways, she pitied him. Holding his stare resolutely, she answered, "I did lie to you, Raoul. I hope you understand why. I can't let you hurt him. I love him."

The Vicomte nodded more out of habit than truly comprehending, but he quickly shielded his pain, pretending to seem aloof. "I would have protected you to my dying breath…. I hope you know that."

She nodded. "I do…. Thank you, Raoul."

The Vicomte did not reply, did not even mutter a goodbye; he only turned slowly and wandered away. She was reasonably sure that he had expected the very answer she had given, but had to hear it from her lips anyway. In that moment, she said her own goodbye to her childhood friend.

* * *

It was finally opening night for Erik's _Don Juan Triumphant_. The audience was beginning to filter in from a line of carriages outside the opera house's magnificent columns. Behind the closed, red velvet curtain, stage workers ran about making final preparations while costumers were rushing from dressing room to dressing room sewing ripped seams and tacking falling hems.

In her own dressing room beyond the chaos, Christine sat before her vanity while the dresser finished her hair. The thick tresses were to be left loose and long down her back in curls as per Erik's detailed instructions.

As she calmly sat there, she thought about Erik. The last time she had seen him had been early that morning as she had left his house for final rehearsals. He had gazed at her with such adoration in his beautiful eyes, wishing her luck. Holding her face in his hands, he had told her, "You are already perfection, my Christine. I may have written the role for you, but you breathed life into her. I could not be more proud. Tonight you will have them all at your feet…, but I am already there, worshipping the ground you walk. I always have, and I always will. I love you."

His words had brought tears to her eyes, and even the memory of them now formed a lump in the back of her throat.

"Oh, mam'selle, you must be thinking of wonderful things! You look so happy!" the hairdresser Sophie exclaimed, regarding Christine's deeply thoughtful face in the mirror's glass.

"I am, Sophie. Very, very happy."

"And you aren't at all nervous about the opening?"

Christine shook her head. "No, how can I be? It's a role I was meant to play."

A few minutes later as Sophie hurried out to the next dressing room, a boy pushed his way in through the open doorway.

"Flowers for you, mam'selle," the boy called in a singsong voice, his arms laden with a basket that overflowed with lush blooms.

Christine motioned where they could be set, and after the boy left her alone again, she rushed for the card, lifting it out from between two large, purple flowers. It read, 'Good luck tonight, Christine. Regards, Raoul'. No words of love. No gushing sentiments. Only a kind thought.

Christine heard a small click behind her and flipped around with a huge smile in time to see Erik emerge from the mirror.

"What? No flowers?" she teased as his eyes hungrily trailed over every inch of her. "The Vicomte sent this exquisite arrangement."

A mischievous grin lit his lips and turning back to the open entrance to the catacombs, he drew forth an enormous bouquet of red roses.

"Oh, Erik!" she excitedly laughed, rushing to take them. She set them right beside her vanity where she would have a constant view and delicately traced the velvet petals of one flower. "They're beautiful!"

"Read the card."

Carefully parting the blooms to find it, she plucked it out and read the poetic lines aloud. " 'To my beloved Christine, the inspiration of my every note, the root of my every joy, my love, my muse, my soul. I love you'." Tears glinted and shimmered in her blue eyes as she tucked the card against the side of her mirror so that the words were openly displayed for anyone to see.

"You're beautiful," he told her, continuing to worship her with his eyes alone. The costume that he had chosen for her was as alluringly seductive as the opera itself. The bodice was made of black Spanish lace, the neckline dipping low to expose her creamy shoulders and a hint of the tops of her breasts. And the skirt was calf-length and coral with a high slit on one side that revealed an immodest glimpse of her thigh whenever she took a step. She was a siren, an absolute fantasy come to life, Erik's fantasy.

Christine could feel the heat from his penetrating eyes, causing a shiver to trail her skin, and she stuttered, "I…I thought I wouldn't see you before the show."

"I came to spark your imagination."

"Oh?"

Erik raised his brows, blatantly suggestive, and plainly admitted, "I know that I am your muse during those passionate duets with Don Juan."

"How-?"

"I have ears all over the theatre; you should know that."

Christine remembered her innocent little admission to Meg of exactly such information, and she smiled with her own guilt. "Oh, that. Well, it is only natural that I would draw from my own experience to portray such emotions…. And besides that! You wrote the scene envisioning you and I acting it out!"

He shrugged innocently and quickly insisted, "This isn't about me at the moment. This is about preparing you." As he spoke, he closed the remaining distance between them and pulled her into his embrace with one hand while the other lifted off his mask.

When at last his mouth found hers, she was eagerly awaiting his kiss, meeting his fervency. Her arms weaved around him, her fingers slipping into the hair above the nape of his neck, and she arched her body into his, delighted when he moaned against her lips. His tongue just barely invaded her mouth, just a taste, his hands trailing up the slit of her skirt over the curve of her hip and brushing over the fullness of one breast. Then all at once, he pulled back.

She gave him a disappointed pout, and with satisfaction in his voice, he declared, "I think that will suffice for now." While he still had her in his arms, he added, "Make them bow to you. You are exquisite."

With those words and a grazing of his lips over her forehead, Erik disappeared back through the mirror, leaving her with a mixture of desire and determination.

* * *

The instant that the opening chords to the overture resounded through the crowded theatre, a rush of excitement coursed through Christine's body.

The first two acts went by flawlessly, scenes moving by rapidly so that each moment got lost in the next. By the time the curtain opened on the third act, she could hardly comprehend where Acts One and Two had gone.

Offstage awaiting her entrance, Christine was mentally preparing herself for the scene. So far, she was pleased with her performance. She knew Erik would be proud of her, …and yet no matter how many times she nonchalantly glanced up at Box 5 expecting to see his shadow, she found nothing but empty seats. The only person she caught sight of and recognized was Raoul from his own box on the opposite side, and he was beaming with the pride she was anticipating to see in Erik's eyes. Where was he? She wondered if he had simply chosen another place to watch from, perhaps still concerned over safety, and yet she had glimpsed no armed guards lurking about ready to shoot.

With a sigh, she had to force the thoughts away and attempt to focus. This was the scene of her duet with Don Juan.

Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she summoned forth a memory of the passionate kiss Erik had given her for inspiration, recalling the very sensation of his mouth on hers. Immediately, she felt desirous, sensual, and strong.

There was her cue. Retaining that feeling of power and desire, she walked onto the stage, singing her opening recitative. Her every step was deliberately slow, graceful as with a sweep of her skirt, she lowered herself onto a bench and awaited the entrance of her companion.

The moment seemed long and unnerving, and fighting to remain in character, she wondered what was taking Piangi so long for his entrance. Tossing her loose curls from side to side flirtatiously and swinging her feet, Christine attempted to cover her partner's lateness, humming the melody of her earlier aria as if this was all part of the scene. Glancing out, she caught sight of an enraged Reyer, starting to rise from his seat as the orchestra played Piangi's cue one more time.

Christine felt a presence entering the stage behind her, and relaxing with an inaudible sigh of relief, she tossed her curls again and played the coquette, slipping back into her fantasy of Erik.

And then Don Juan raised his voice in his opening line, and she froze, her blue eyes growing wide. Was that…? But it couldn't be…. She must have been so engrossed in her fantasy that she was hearing Erik's voice and not Piangi's anymore. That had to be the explanation. But then Don Juan began his recitative, and she shuddered with the swell of emotion that danced the length of her spine.

_Erik…._ She turned to her masked Don Juan, desperately trying to retain some semblance of character even as her gaze met the mismatched one staring from behind a black mask. Her initial questions fled as that beautiful voice weaved around her. It was him! Teasing her in his gaze alone, he reveled in her surprise as he sang the lines of temptation and desire in the exact manner as they had been written.

_This was how it was supposed to be! _Erik meditated. He himself on the stage with Christine, singing words written solely for her. The passion in his voice and his eyes at that moment was not the inspiration of a character he was playing; it was his own, and it was real.

Erik's voice glided over his last line of recitative and slipped right into the melody of his inspired duet. As he encircled Christine, she turned and followed him with her eyes, unable to look away.

That voice! She could not control the things it caused her to feel, and she didn't want to. It was so true and genuine. Half-mesmerized, she rose, anticipating his approach before he even began to close the gap between them.

Erik reached for her, and capturing her waist in his hands, he guided her to stand before him, singing over her shoulder. She shivered, and savouring her every reaction, he purposely drew her flush against him so that she would be able to feel the desperate ache of his desire as his chilled fingers teasingly grazed her collarbone. Over and onward along the low cut trim of her bodice, and she closed her eyes and sighed delight.

Nothing else mattered or existed in that moment, not the audience or the opera. Everyone watching perceived it all to be an exquisitely acted scene, too ignorant to notice the new Don Juan and too naïve to believe that what they saw was real. The only one to recognize the truth was the Vicomte de Chagny watching in his box with a mixture of disgust and horror, and yet he never turned away.

Erik's hand made a path along the side of her bodice, tracing the curve of her hip and then splaying across her stomach. Only she could hear the telltale edge of hoarseness in his beautiful voice that revealed exactly how much he was truly being affected and how deeply desire actually ran. Gently releasing her and coming alongside, he caught her hand in his, and as his final note faded out into the theatre, he lifted it to his lips to press a fervent kiss against the raging pulse of her wrist.

It was her turn, her turn to sing, her turn to seduce. A devilishly wicked smile lit her lips as she realized that she now held all of the power, that she could seduce him exactly as she liked. …She could do whatever she wanted; he was hers.

The orchestra gave her a chord, and she began to sing as her eyes provocatively trailed over the muscles and planes of his body before daring to meet his gaze, her intentions clear.

Very gently, she pushed him to sit on the bench and trailed her fingertips across his chest as she stepped behind. Her palms momentarily set atop his shoulders, long enough to cause him to wonder over her intentions. Then slowly, she slid them down his torso, moving lower and lower until he deliberately caught them, entwining his fingers with hers, as she felt every harsh breath he was taking into starved lungs.

Erik kept her hands captive for only a second more before she yanked free and stepped away, meeting his eye with a look of utter amusement that drove him to insanity and nearly made him chuckle aloud as he rose on unsteady legs and followed her.

A great swell raced through the violins. He raised his voice to join hers in that fervent duet, and with the urgent need to touch in two strides, they came together, finding each other as they sang. Faces were only a breath away, voices entwining and soaring through the theatre in the most beautiful sound, heavenly and ethereal. Their final note echoed up to the rafters and died away, but emotion crackled and remained like a tangible thing, a curtain that enshrouded them both in its brilliance.

Erik stared at Christine with absolute wonder, and then in a voice that was tender and soft, he began to sing something unscripted as the orchestra stopped playing in muddled confusion.

Christine felt tears prick her eyes. He was singing words of love, poetry, and as he continued, his hand drew forth from his pocket a ring whose diamond caught and shimmered beneath the stage lights. His beautiful song gradually became a proposal, and he offered the ring with a hesitant trepidation, even as she smiled and let the tears cascade down her cheeks.

"Christine, I love you…" Erik sang with that angel's voice, tears sparkling in the corners of his own eyes.

He had stopped singing; she only half-noticed that his song was over, and he was awaiting her answer. While he still held the ring out to her, smiling with her own love and a sense of reassurance, her hand slowly extended to his mask.

Erik didn't stop her. He could have; her actions were deliberately slow, asking permission, giving him the opportunity to object. But he didn't take it. He knew her intentions, and he allowed them with an odd curiosity, allowed himself to be stripped in front of a full opera house.

Christine calmly curled her fingers around the edge of the black mask and lifted it away, tossing it needlessly to the floor and exposing the tattered details of his ravaged face. A gasp could be heard in the audience, a collective sound of suffocated shock and a few random cries of horror, but no one moved or dared to turn away.

Only Christine was unaffected, her smile and teary expression unchanged, and while Erik heard the audience's reaction, a reaction he was well accustomed to, he never once took his eyes from Christine's, never once knew shame or the inevitable rage it brought. He knew only her love.

"I love you," she said, and though she spoke softly, her voice carried out to everyone watching. "I've always loved you, and I always will. In my eyes, you are beautiful, Erik, the most beautiful man I've ever known."

"Christine," he breathed as his tears coursed over his scarred face.

Amidst her own tears, she brushed trembling caresses to his cheek as she replied, "Yes, Erik, I will be your wife."

And he kissed her as if sealing the vow, his lips needing and finding hers with a desperate urgency that whispered forever.

Their display drew a confused response from their spying audience. A few applauded, perhaps believing it to be part of the show, and as others mumbled and followed suit, some smiled in a tentative acceptance. Abhorrence and disgust would always be initial reactions, but emotions like that cowered in the face of love. One of the few yet somber was the Vicomte de Chagny; with his solemn expression and his broken heart, he silently left his box, slipping out before anyone even noticed he had gone.

Back onstage and blissfully oblivious to any of it, Erik drew his lips away with a laugh and teased lowly, "Hoyden."

Christine's girlish giggles echoed through the theatre, down every corridor and up to the rafters, and he couldn't help himself from pressing a playful kiss to the tip of her nose before catching her hand and entwining their fingers as he led her offstage.

"Monsieur _Fantôme_?"

Erik halted mid-step and quickly turned around to face his addressor. There, shifting back and forth a bit with apprehension, stood Meg.

The little ballerina gave him a tentative half-smile and hesitantly extended her hand. "I'm Meg…Meg Giry."

Erik was touched by her introduction, his voice momentarily failing him. Swallowing hard, he gently took her offered hand with his free one and replied in a choked voice, "I know who you are…. Please, call me Erik."

Meg's smile grew less wary and more genuine as she bobbed a quick curtsy to him and cast a flustered smile to Christine before scurrying off to join the other ballerinas. …It was a start.

"May we go home now?" Christine asked the man beside her, …her soon-to-be husband.

With a mischievous expression, he drew her into the shadows at the far end of the wing and before she even realized it, into one of his many passages.

As they began their descent through the catacombs to his home, Erik suddenly asked, "So do you think my opera had a successful premiere?"

She shrugged and laughed. "What was performed of it. _You_ interrupted the performance."

"Yes, but I certainly surprised you. Have you not yet realized that you are far more important to me than anything else? Even music?"

"I'll remind you of that the next time you're composing." Christine's brow suddenly furrowed with deep thought. "How in the world did you get Piangi to go along with your plan and allow you to step in and play Don Juan?"

A nervous chuckle announced his guilt. "I wouldn't say he went along with it so much as I locked him in his dressing room and stole the role."

"You locked him in his dressing room?"

He nodded. "But don't worry. They'll find him easily enough. When I left, he was screaming curses in Italian and pounding hard enough to shake the door on its frame. Suffice to say, he wasn't too happy with confinement."

"I should think he wouldn't be." She couldn't help but laugh when she considered the pompous tenor pounding furiously on his locked door, shouting to be let out.

As they continued to walk, he suddenly declared, "You were wonderful tonight, absolutely brilliant. And I won't apologize for what I did to Piangi because singing with you on the stage was the most incredible experience of my life…. I had only ever dreamed such a thing…."

Christine turned to meet his eye in the darkness. "I adored every moment of it…."

"Pity there are no operas written for disfigured tenors in a mask."

With all of the knowledge of the world in her eyes, she predicted, "You'll write one, and then we will perform it together in your opera house."

She glimpsed the light of inspiration her prediction had ignited within him, and as he silently began to meditate on the idea, she laughed and scolded, "Remember that you said _I_ was more important than anything else? _Even_ music?"

"Oh yes, I'd nearly forgotten you were there," he teased back, and facing her, he abruptly drew her into his arms with a pacifying kiss to her forehead. "Tonight is ours, _mon amour_, and I mean to spend every moment of it making love to my soon-to-be wife."

"And you will! Everything else can wait till tomorrow."

"I love you, Christine," he breathed, reaching up to cradle her cheek in his palm. And then he dared to add, "Despite the fact that you are a perfect hoyden."

"What?" she shouted with mock indignation. "Ridiculous man! I ought to leave you right here and let you go home alone."

Before she could make good on her threat, he quickly bent and scooped her up, tossing her unceremoniously over his shoulder as she gave a cry of annoyance.

"I don't think so," Erik replied, playfully smacking her backside as he carried her onward. "I already have devilish plans for what I wish to do to you."

_Oh no, he would not win!_ With a smile on her lips, she let her fingers yank his shirt from his pants and stretch beneath to find the cool skin of his back, trailing it temptingly.

Erik shuddered at her alluring touch, trying to keep control, but as her teasing fingers slipped beneath the waistband of his pants, he could take no more. Without a thought, he dragged her with him to the floor and began to cover her with kisses as she beamed in her triumph.

Her laughter carried down the dark corridors, bringing with it genuine happiness and a love so strong that it seemed to glow with a warm light. It was true love, the sort that never died, only grew, and on the wings of it, darkness no longer seemed dark and sadness no longer sad. And a face tortured and cursed for a lifetime, mangled and scarred, seemed beautiful.

Later that night with Christine asleep cuddled up beside him in his bed, for the first time in his life, Erik considered himself blessed and saved, no longer a disfigured monster with sin blackening his soul, but a loved man whose soul was healing under the power of Christine's love. With her heart in his care, he knew he could be a good man.

Smiling down at her, he pressed a gentle kiss to her smooth brow and let sleep take him away, knowing that his bliss had only just begun.


End file.
